


Weekend at the Circus

by Neyiea



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, M/M, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-01 22:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17875970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: Jeremiah was the shut-in brains of the company but Jerome was the far more social, more fun, more attractive face. Right now he wishes he wasn't, because maybe then he wouldn't be forced to escort some rich girl around a goddamn travelling circus on a Friday. It's not often that Jerome would prefer a night in to a night out, but this was definitely one of those times.Until something (someone) changes his mind.





	1. Friday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Let me write some cute-ish AUs before I delve into some darker canon works for my new hyper-fixation called Gotham.
> 
> Inspired by a text post I can't entirely remember from tumblr; the gist of it being Jerome as a billionaire playboy and Bruce as a circus worker who can pickpocket as well as he can smooth talk. Upon seeing it something in my brain lit up and said 'hey, you haven't written in a long time, let's get back to it' and so here were are.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

The first call comes at 5:09, presumably right after the workaholic he calls brother has woken up and checked through his emails for anything new since the night before. Jerome ignores the buzzing in his pocket quite easily; instead far more invested in the bombshell blonde who’s been eyeing him for the past hour. Last call at the club was technically at 2:00, but he knows enough about Gotham, money, and himself to know that a little persuasion can go a long way to facilitate body shots at any time. 

Besides, he deserves a little celebration after that frankly outstanding PR he got in the Gotham Gazette yesterday. He usually leaves his partying for the weekend but when that paper had made its rounds around the office -and considering that he’d had no other concerns pressing enough to take up his attention- well, who could blame him for going out last night and using up a few hours of his saved-up vacation days to take a half day today?

His brother, probably; and those stuffy board members who wouldn’t know how to loosen up even if Jerome staged a thirty-minute power point presentation on it. But even they would have to admit that his good news combined with the spectacular way his tip off had panned out -he loved seeing irritating peoples’ names dragged through the metaphorical mud- signaled an excellent end to the business day.

The next call comes at 5:11. Then 5:13, and then at 5:15 Jerome pulls away, liquor burning his throat and a lime wedge cheekily slipped between his lips by aforementioned blonde, and answers the call.

“Finally,” Jeremiah starts, nagging mode activated as soon as he’d woken up at his standard, insufferable time of one minute before his alarm was scheduled to go off, “if you’re going to stay up all night getting drunk and letting the paparazzi take unflattering photos of you, you should at least do one decent thing and answer my calls promptly.”

“There’s no such thing as an unflattering photo of me.” Jerome disposes the lime wedge in an empty glass and winks at his companion. “You’re confusing me with yourself, clearly. You know what that’s a sign of, right?”

“Jerome,” Jeremiah grits out and Jerome grins at the sound of frustration, “shut up. And go somewhere quieter. I can hardly hear you over that ridiculous racket you think is music.”

“Sorry that piano concertos don’t make me hard,” Jerome retorts, staying put, “now, let’s skip the small talk and you can tell me why the fuck you’re calling me before sunrise.”

“We’re closing the deal with Lamont today. Since you don’t care much for the business part of our business you get to handle the social aspect of this arrangement.”

“Which is?” Jerome slumps further into his seat, waiting for the catch. Suddenly it seems as if his planned, well deserved half day is no longer in the cards, all because no one could bother to tell him before leaving the office yesterday that something that fell into his specific area of expertise might just come up. How god damn _irritating._

The woman across from him is starting to look bored so he’d really like to wrap this up and salvage what he can.

“He’s bringing his daughter along since she’s never been to Gotham before. Haly’s Circus will be in town for the long weekend. His daughter has also never been to the circus,” Jeremiah drones, clearly also wanting to put an end to the conversation. “Do the math.”

Jerome is still buzzed enough that he lets out a raspy laugh despite himself. “You’re joking, right?”

“Unfortunately not. It seems that she remembers you from the Valeska Foundation broadcast a few years back where you hijacked the stage after firing the magician. She asked for you specifically. Apparently she thinks you’re funny.” Jeremiah spits out the last word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“No thanks.” No way was he spending a Friday night escorting some rich girl around a travelling circus. Surely some lowly intern could do it instead.

“Your request to use up half of one of your vacation days was declined in light of this new situation. You still have the morning free, of course, but you’re expected to be on the clock after regular business hours for this. The deal is quite beneficial to our company, we don’t want Mister Lamont backing out last minute just because we don’t comply with one measly whim.”

He doesn’t even sound the slightest bit sorry. Jerome hisses out a breath between his teeth.

“No. Thanks. Find someone else. The girl’s got to learn how to deal with disappointment sooner or later in life, it may as well be now.”

“What’s that? You’re refusing your duties as the, what’s your official title again? The Chief Social Liaison of Valeska Enterprises? Well I hate to be the one reminding you of this, but this situation falls under your departmental jurisdiction, and the importance of it means that it must be handled by you personally. If you were to ignore this then, as per your contract, you could face a one-week unpaid suspension from your duties.”

One week without pay was nothing -hello inheritance- but the revolting knowledge that perfect, precious Jeremiah had never and would never have to worry about suspension in the first place? Too vital to the company for that to even be considered? Oh, that burns.

Whatever was left of his good mood goes up in smoke. He fights to keep from snarling.

“You absolute fucking-”

“Don’t put all the blame on me. You know just as well as I do what expectations mother laid out before she passed.”

Damn it all, but he was right. The cold-hearted harpy who had been his mother had left very specific instructions in the case of her death. If her sons wanted to work within the family business then they would have to work twice as hard as anyone else or face the consequences.

He suspects she’d planned it that way already knowing that her favorite son was going to do great things and assuming that her other son wouldn’t want to bother and would instead choose to stay out of the company.

He also suspects that every time he does his job -and does it so fucking well- she rolls in her grave, and if that isn’t enough to keep him working, what is?

Spite has carried him a long way. Jeremiah might be the brains of the operation, but Jerome had quite easily made himself the face. Jeremiah was an unreachable, uncharismatic recluse while Jerome was at every gala, charity event, celebration, launch party; hell, he’d even been at a bunch of municipal fundraisers during the Arkham project. Since his eighteenth birthday he’s successfully made some of the most powerful people in this city assume he was a ‘boyishly charming’ young man. Even now, half way through his twenties, he is at best seen as an amiable philanthropist and at worst seen as a partying playboy. Not a threat to anything or anyone. They had no idea that he had vision, and ambition, and brains. They got too caught up in his and Jeremiah’s contrasting roles that they forgot he owned just as many company stocks.

Jeremiah was the company darling, but Jerome could have every one of the Gotham elite eating out of the palm of his hand. 

He was fully capable of leaving a mark on this city. Someday he would. 

Until then he’ll just have to grit his teeth and think about how this situation means that he’s fucking excellent at his job. A born entertainer, really.

“Fine, asshole, text me the details. But you’d better up the budget for next year’s Foundation Gala.”

“I’ll bring it up with the board.” And, without a word of goodbye, Jeremiah hangs up.

Jerome sets his phone down, realizes that he’s now alone at the table, and somehow curbs his instinct to break something.

He worked too hard on that good bit of PR to ruin it now by throwing some tables and chairs around in a slowly emptying club.

“Celebration over,” he grouches to himself as he checks the clock on his phone. 5:30, the club would be closed in half an hour and instead of prolonging a good time he’d be heading to bed alone and angry.

“A fucking travelling circus.”

They’d better at least have some good performers.


	2. Friday Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Jerome meet.

Okay, so he’d grudgingly admit that the acrobats had been entertaining, and he appreciated the added drama of no safety net, but most of the other performers and even the ringmaster himself lacked a certain amount of panache. There was a difference between simply holding someone’s attention and enthralling them enough that they couldn’t look away.

He was a connoisseur of this sort of thing, an entertainer in his own right at times, and if he could juggle more than three items at once he certainly wouldn’t waste his skills on simple balls and bowling pins.

Miss Jackline “call me Jackie” Lamont -twenty-two and studying something Jerome had filed away as ‘boring’ and thus immediately forgotten- seemed enthralled enough by every routine in the show. Apparently her favorite part of his years-ago broadcast had been when he conjured a dove, simple sleight of hand, as opposed to when he’d been throwing knives around the pinned mayor, a skill that was not only thrilling but actually took him more than several days to master, so perhaps he shouldn’t be too surprised.

Another bowling pin is thrown into the mix and the crowd ‘ooh’s while Jerome fights the urge to heckle. He has strict orders to ‘play nice’ and ‘be a gentleman’ and ‘if I hear from Mister Lamont that you ruined his daughter’s first trip to the circus I’ll blah blah empty threat blah’. Still, he doesn’t clap when the routine comes to an end.

Juggling just wasn’t interesting unless there was a possibility of someone losing a finger at the very least.

The ringmaster comes back to announce a snake charmer as the next act. Jackie’s face pulls into a grimace and she glances at him.

“I hate snakes. Let’s go play some games instead.” And she stands up and starts walking away before he even has the chance to agree.

He hates being brushed over, and it’s especially irritating in this moment since she was the only reason he’d been forced to come here. He takes his time getting up; smoothing out his jacket, checking his phone for any missed calls or texts, and then he follows after her. He somehow manages to keep a neutral expression on his face when he sees her waiting at the exit of the tent, tapping her foot impatiently as if the one minute she’d had to wait for him was one minute too much. She was probably used to people jumping up and running after her, tripping over themselves to keep her content.

And fuck if that doesn’t remind him of some of the worst parts of his dearly departed mother.

Jeremiah owes him for this.

“What game are we playing first,” he manages to ask pleasantly, wary of the way her eyes light up. He prays to any god or demon that might be listening that she doesn’t ask him to win her a large stuffed animal from a booth. If this work obligation crosses the line into corny date territory then everyone can fuck right off. He’ll take the week suspension. See how well liked the company is without the stream of good PR he’s directly responsible for.

“I want to dunk someone in the tank,” is what she says instead of the multitude of horrifying options she could have gone with.

“Well then,” the smile that pulls at his lips is slightly more genuine than the others he’s painted on his face since he’d woken up this afternoon, “let’s see how good your aim is.”

She smiles back at him and turns to lead the way, Jerome idly following behind her and taking in the grounds. They’d entered the tent before sunset, but it was fully night now and every stall, attraction, and ride are lit up, vying for the crowd’s attention and, more importantly, their money.

The place doesn’t look half bad in the dark. That’s true of most things in Gotham, he muses with a snort.

Jackie abruptly comes to a stop in front of him; she whips out her phone at an alarming speed and Jerome nearly trips over himself to avoid bumping into her. She snaps several quick pictures, and then from over her shoulder Jerome sees her reverse the camera and he ducks away to keep himself from getting caught in her selfie. She continues walking without a word or checking to make sure that he was following and, yeah, that was going to keep being annoying.

She stops again outside a food truck, staring at the chalkboard advertisement for a deep-fried candy bar with a kind of astonished wonder before seeming to gather her courage and getting in line to place an order. Once acquired she takes several photos of her fried treat, putting way too much thought into the angle, lighting, and background for the pictures to be for anything other than social media.

He’s actually surprised that she takes even one bite of it before tossing it into a nearby trash bin.

They do eventually make it to the dunk tank -though they’d stopped at another food truck with a much longer line for Jackie to buy herself a funnel cake that he highly doubts she’ll finish- she hands off her half-eaten dessert to him and eagerly purchases five attempts. Jerome sets the paper plate down and leans back against a nearby ice cream truck. He watches her wind up and let loose the ball and-

Oh.

Terrible is one word for her aim, atrocious is another.

She makes a second attempt and almost hits the woman manning the tank. Jerome has to stifle his laughter when he sees the poor woman duck to avoid being concussed. 

At the third attempt Jerome decides it’s too funny for him to continue watching without laughing -and that would probably be a strike against Jeremiah’s ‘be a gentleman’ rule and get him into more trouble than it was worth- so he looks away, eyes falling to the booth across from the dunk tank.

Running the shooting gallery is an attractive young man, maybe around Jackie’s age, with dark hair, dark eyes, and the kind of features you might see in a classic painting. His slender frame is leaning across the booth, obviously trying to charm a few people closer. He speaks lowly to a small group of twenty somethings, smiles, and they approach him like moths to a flame.

Jerome pays little attention to the sound of frustration that signals Jackie’s fourth failed attempt. There’s something about the way the young man moves, fluid and confident, that almost reads as predatory. The way he hands over the toy guns to the group, still charming the crowd as he explains the rules and-

Jerome blinks, unsure if his eyes had been playing tricks on him.

It had almost looked as if, after leaning over to give one of the players a gun, he’d slipped something up his sleeve.

Something square and flat. One might even go so far as to say it was wallet-shaped.

Jerome keeps his eyes trained on the young man as he steps aside, out of the way but only partially concealed by the edges of the booth, watches him even as the groups’ focus shifts onto the moving targets and the thrill of a competition.

Watches even as Jackie demands another five tries, and catches the slight movement of the previously concealed wallet dropping down into his loosely curled hand, sees him going through the falsified motion of pulling the wallet out of his own jean pocket and opening it up to pluck out a few small bills with the wallet’s rightful owner not six feet away.

Oh, that’s bold.

Crime is a normality in Gotham -he knows that just as well as anyone else- but it’s usually confined to abandoned alleyways, old warehouses, or boardrooms where people wear hundred-dollar pocket squares. To steal from someone, no weapon needed, and go through their personal property in front of them and dozens of other people in a booth lit up like a beacon? Now that’s what Jerome calls a show.

The wallet slips back up the sleeve as the timer counts down to zero. Jerome shifts a bit to watch as he collects the guns while talking and looking each guest in the eye and then, easy as pie, gracefully slips the wallet back into the owner’s jacket pocket without breaking eye contact in a move Jerome himself might not have noticed if he wasn’t looking specifically for it.

Finally, some applause worthy talent.

A loud splash and whoop of excitement signals Jackie’s delayed success. He shifts to look at her, calmly acting as if he’d been watching her the whole time as she whirls around to grin at him.

“Nice throw,” he says, even though he really wants to say something along the lines of ‘about time’. “Now it’s my turn to choose.” He picks up her funnel cake and hands it over as abruptly as she’d handed it off to him. “Shooting gallery.”

Her brow furrows and she opens her mouth to say something. He turns and walks away before she can, cheerful not only at giving her a small taste of her own medicine but at the prospect of seeing the young thief’s work up close. Maybe even toying with him a little. 

After all, he muses as he slips his wallet into a more accessible location, the thief surely has a plan in place for if he’s close to getting caught. That might be even more interesting to watch than the acrobats. And as someone who’s also dabbled in sleight of hand -both for show and to occasionally take a phone, or key, or piece of jewelry that he always ended up returning eventually so it wasn’t technically theft, really- the best way for him to assess the thief’s prowess was to lay some bait himself.

Taking things was the easy part, but putting them back in place? That required a lot more cunning.

He slips into the one remaining slot just before the next game can begin. The thief looks at him, smiles warmly, and walks the few steps needed to stand before him.

“It’s five to play,” he says and wow, nice face, nice hands, nice voice, what a near deadly combination.

Jerome gives him a twenty and puts the fifteen he gets in change back in his wallet which he tucks securely in place. It won’t be fun if he makes it too easy, after all.

“Have you played before?”

“Nah, but I get the gist of it, I’m a quick study,” he says with a grin that he’s been told is too wide, too eerie. Anticipation is getting the better of him. He takes the offered gun with both hands and says, “I’m Jerome, by the way.”

He hears a huff of displeasure from behind him which he assumes is Jackie, mad that she’s not the center of his attention.

The thief appears to pause, as if somewhat startled by the introduction, but Jerome feels the faintest tug that signals he’s anything but frozen. 

“I’m Bruce,” he says, not nearly as flirty as expected; somehow that makes it more interesting, “nice to meet you.”

Likewise, Jerome thinks as Bruce steps back and starts the timer.

Outright staring would obviously give him away, so every few seconds he glances away from the targets to watch Bruce skim through not one but two wallets.

Couldn’t resist a well-dressed man, he thinks with a widening grin, especially with a wallet so steal-able, at least to someone with experience, that it might as well be gift wrapped. 

Even with his attention split he ends up winning the round and Bruce approaches him, smiling and clapping, and leans over to take back the gun.

“Well done. You’ve won a prize from the middle shelf. Think about what you’d like and I’ll-” Jerome pins the now empty hand against his now full chest pocket. Bruce doesn’t skip a beat, doesn’t even blink, just continues gracefully under pressure. “-be right back to you.”

“A bit handsy, aren’t you?”

Bruce stares straight into his eyes, smile still in place, and says, “I’m a hands-on kind of guy.”

Jackie squawks behind him and it’s impossible to tell if the flush spreading over Bruce’s cheeks is real or cleverly faked.

“I apologize, that was an inappropriate thing to say,” his smile turns wry, and his pulse is steady and slow where Jerome’s thumb rests against his wrist. He could probably fool a polygraph no problem, and isn’t that just delightful? “I’ve been told I’m not great with social cues so forgive me for being blunt, but have you realized that you’re still holding my hand?”

“Yes,” he answers, and waits for Bruce to start squirming.

Bruce’s expression doesn’t shift with a tell, his pulse and respiration rate don’t suddenly hitch.

“If you want to continue holding my hand, you could at least-”

There’s a clattering as the other guests drop their guns on the counter, unwilling to wait for what looks and sounds like flirting to finish in order to hand them over to Bruce in person. Bruce, to his credit, manages to thank them for playing even with one arm trapped, another stolen wallet concealed up his sleeve, said wallet’s owner walking towards any number of things that may spark his fancy and leave him reaching for something that is no longer there.

He’s probably planning on tossing the wallet over the counter, soon to be found by the owner or perhaps an exceedingly rare good samaritan. Jerome doesn’t quite want to give him the chance.

“I’ll play again.” He lets go of the hand to pull out his wallet, his previous actions and his current smirk definitely enough to let Bruce know he’s onto him. “No point taking home a prize if it’s not from the top shelf.”

“I’m playing too.” Jackie slides in beside him, giving Bruce an appraising eye as if she’s sizing up competition.

Bruce takes it all in stride, even when Jerome opens up his wallet. Unflappable, this one, he’d probably be an absolute beast in business, or in a game of poker.

“After this,” Jackie says just before they start, “we’re going to the milk jug game and you’re winning me the biggest stuffed animal they have.”

The hell he is.

“You do realize that this is absolutely not a date, right?”

“I sure do,” she snips back sourly and, huh, her aim with a gun is so much better than her aim with a baseball, “that doesn’t get you out of winning me a prize though.”

Well, at least that was cleared up now, although Jerome would have to be particularly dense not to sense some bitterness in her tone.

Today’s top story: rich girl who’s used to boys falling over themselves to please her finds out that she’s not everybody’s type, more at 10.

Jerome snickers to himself before focusing back on the targets and losing himself in the game. When the clock reaches zero he sets down his gun, pleased with his score, and leans forward with both hands braced on the counter. “Is that top shelf prize worthy,” he drawls, “or am I going to have to play again?”

Bruce looks at him like he’s a particularly difficult puzzle -good luck trying to figure him out, no one else ever had- and seems to be about to respond when a loud “hey!” stops him in his tracks.

Jerome turns to see one of the previous players marching angrily towards the booth. Trailing behind him in an actual, uniformed member of the GCPD.

This ought to be good.

“Where’s my wallet you little punk?” He looks about ready to vault over the counter to where Bruce is standing, the absolute picture of innocent surprise.

“Sir,” the officer starts tiredly, planting her hands on her hips, “I know that you’re stressed and that you want this resolved quickly, but-” She somehow manages to refrain from saying ‘this is Gotham’, “pointing fingers-”

“Pointing fingers my ass! Not even five minutes ago I had my wallet out to pay for this game, then I only move a few booths down and it’s gone?”

“Sir.” The officer’s voice firms at his tone. People are starting to stare. The crowd is thinning now that it’s getting closer to closing time, but there are still a lot of eyes left to focus on them. “Please calm down.”

Jerome really wishes he had some popcorn. He side-eyes Bruce, still seemingly cool as ever under the increasing pressure and the attention of the surrounding public.

“Don’t tell me what to do! I lose my wallet right after coming within a foot of this handsy guy?”

Oh, using Jerome’s own words against Bruce, intriguing choice. Jerome wonders if he’d still be so sure that Bruce was the culprit if he hadn’t had that very visible, very audible moment with him after the game.

The man gestures wildly to Bruce, who takes on an affronted look. “I know what’s going on here you thieving carny scum!”

Bruce’s expression shutters -suddenly blank-, the officer sighs, and Jackie abruptly turns about face.

“Hey, asshole! How about you actually take a look around you before hurling accusations at people? You absolute fucking dipshit.”

The man looks taken aback to have been cussed out by such a proper looking young lady. What a show this was turning out to be, Jerome bites his lip to keep silent. The only thing funnier than this would be some additional humiliation to go with Jackie’s misplaced ire.

Every stunned eye within earshot is pinned on Jackie so he’s free to lean down, as if to pick something up from the ground, and the twice-stolen wallet slips from his own sleeve into his hand.

He raises it into the air and loudly clears his throat.

“Excuse me, is this what you’re getting so riled up about?”

The man looks away from Jackie, catches sight of the wallet in his hand, and goes white. “That’s it, but -no! He must have thrown it over the side!”

“He didn’t throw anything over the side,” Jerome states with absolute certainty, the best way to lie is to tell the truth whenever you can, “did you Brucie?”

Bruce seems to startle at the nickname, but he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have had the time for that.” His gaze falls on Jerome, something nameless burning in the depths of his eyes. “Besides, you’ve been here the whole time, you would have seen something.”

Jackie crosses her arms and glares. “I’ve been here since you left too, and I didn’t see him throw anything. Are you going to start calling me a liar now? Turn me into an accomplice?”

The man, now beet red, can’t seem to form words. _Hilarious._

“No one is calling anyone a liar.” The officer intervenes quickly, as if a riot will break out if she doesn’t act fast. She must still be somewhat new to the job. “The wallet’s been found,” she takes it from Jerome with a grateful nod, “no one’s filing any reports,” she gives a reassuring smile to Bruce, “and I think we’ve all learned a lesson about jumping to conclusions.” Her eyes coldly land on the man who’s somehow even more red than before.

Someone in the crowd starts clapping, then more and more join in and Jerome’s shoulders shake with the effort of holding in his laughter. 

It takes a few minutes for the crowd to settle down, and before Jackie gets a chance to pull him away Jerome catches Bruce’s eye. He leans close to the counter, Bruce automatically mirroring him, and he drops his voice and whispers, “I think I’ll count that spectacle as my prize.”

And then he pulls back and winks.

Well damn, he’s actually kind of enjoyed himself tonight. If he didn’t have work-mandated company he might invite Bruce out to a bar to toast his skill-set. As it is though he’s dragged away by Jackie, who’s intent on getting a cheap stuffed animal she could easily buy a hundred of.

Jerome throws one quick glance over his shoulder before they walk out of sight of the shooting gallery and isn’t entirely surprised but is delighted none the less that a particular pair of dark eyes are pinned on him, full of an exhilarating intensity. 

There’s nothing like leaving someone with unanswered questions to make them remember you.

His good mood miraculously lasts through the rest of the night, even when he has to bribe a booth to stay open for a little longer so that he can win Jackie a particularly ridiculous teddy bear. They pass by the shooting gallery on their way off the grounds and Jerome finds himself somewhat disappointed that Bruce has already vacated his spot. He wouldn’t have minded throwing one last smirk in his direction before calling it a night.

It almost makes him contemplate coming back tomorrow.

One by one the dazzling sets of lights begin to go out behind them. By the time they’re halfway across the empty field that separates them from the closest parking lot the only things lighting their way are the dim moon and the gloomy lights of the city.

Jackie cuts through the near-empty parking lot, somehow managing not to trip over anything even with a bear obstructing half her vision. 

“I parked a few streets east from here, what about you?”

His car is in the opposite direction, but it would be bad manners to just let her go off on her own in the dark. Plus he’d never hear the end of it from Jeremiah if one single hair on her head was damaged because of gross negligence, or whatever he’d choose to call it. Better to take another fifteen minutes of walking than an eternity of nitpicking and holier-than-thou attitude.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he offers without sounding too put upon, “just lead the way.”

“You don’t need to. This isn’t a date.”

“It’s not. But it is Gotham.”

Jackie looks up at him like she doesn’t understand what he means by that.

“Trust me, that’s all the reason you need.”

“You’re weirder than I thought you would be.” Her lips purse.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

And of course -because: Gotham- it’s not even five minutes later that he begins to hear a faint sound that is suspiciously similar to footsteps following behind them. He doesn’t look over his shoulder, or ask Jackie if she hears something, or any of the other idiotic things that would clue whoever’s on their tail in to the fact that he knows something’s going on; that would make them antsy and desperate to act quick -a wicked combination when it came to criminals- instead he carries on, completely at ease.

Usually he knows in advance if he’s going to be waltzing into a rougher part of town and he has the foreknowledge to arm himself a little more appropriately. He is a wealthy man of Gotham after all, and it would be sheer lunacy to go walking unarmed into dangerous parts of the city at night. No one would bat an eye at an obvious target like himself feeling the need to carry a gun. Besides, if a small amount of criminal bloodshed happened to occur it wasn’t like he would be the one at fault.

But he has the bare minimum on him tonight, a small knife in his boot, because it hadn’t occurred to him that he might actually end up staying until the circus closed, or that he might actually have to walk someone to a car that they’d parked on the wrong side of town.

Not that having just a knife makes him less dangerous. It only means that the upcoming conflict may take a little longer to resolve. 

He takes a moment to bend down, as if retying his laces.

They turn onto a particularly dark street and then Jerome takes a moment to wonder why Mister Lamont never explained Gotham’s crime rate to his daughter because she actually turns to face an alley and has the gall to announced to him, “this is a shortcut.”

There’s definitely more than one set of footsteps following them now.

Jerome steps with her into the alley, mind buzzing. If he had his gun concealed on him he’d be composing his shell-shocked statement to the police right now, practicing how to get his hands to shake _just right_ while he started with: ‘it was just like that night- you know- the night where my mom was-’ but instead he finds himself combing through a series of facts. Being asked for specifically, being made to stay past close, Jackie parking in an incredibly sketchy location. It makes him wonder if she, perhaps at the behest of her father, is in on this.

Jeremiah had said that the deal was good for their company, but that didn’t necessarily mean that it was good for the Lamonts.

He suspects that putting his knife to her throat to test the theory won’t pan out too well if all that was some sort of coincidence. He also suspects that if the Lamonts are behind trying anything nefarious that he’ll witness the terrifying acts of corporate destruction his ‘I’m nothing if not reasonable’ brother is capable of after a bad day. He’ll be alive for that, of course, because he’s survived worse situations than this with less than what he has. He’ll play along for a little while to see where this situation is headed before he abruptly stops it in his tracks by whatever means necessary. 

He can almost taste the coppery tang of blood in the air already.

A dark figure blocks their way out of the alley. Jackie comes to a stop in front of him.

He wonders what the look on her face is like. 

“Evenin’ folks,” the man in front greets, hat pulled down low, kerchief pulled up over his nose. He pulls out a gun and Jackie makes a sharp, shrill noise as she drops her bear. “Hand over your wallets.”

Jerome schools his features into a suitable expression as he glances back, assessing. Two figures behind them dressed similarly to the man in front, one holding a crowbar, the other a baseball bat. In other words, only one gun. Amateurish. They obviously didn’t expect much resistance.  
This was going to be easier than he thought it would be so long as he plays his cards right. And he always does.

Jackie whirls around and takes a few steps before she realizes that they’re boxed in. 

She turns back, pulling out her wallet with shaking hands. “Please don’t shoot.” She throws it to the ground at the gunman’s feet. “We’ll cooperate, just don’t hurt us.”

“You know,” Jerome breaks in, “I think I may have been pick-pocketed already tonight. No point in being stolen from again.”

“Jerome,” Jackie hisses at him while the gunman takes aim and foolishly walks closer.

Guns have a tendency to make people over-confident, make them think they can’t be disarmed. 

Someone is going to learn an important lesson tonight about always keeping their guard up.

“Nice try, funny-man.” Jerome raises an eyebrow at the epithet, if the gunman is a Gothamite then he’d have to be living under a very secluded rock to not know who Jerome is. “You seem to be holding something in that hand of yours.” The gun is mere inches away from brushing the skin of his forehead. “Last warning; hand it over.”

The blood is singing in his veins from anticipation, he can’t keep the smile off his face. Too wide. Too eerie. “You know what? I’d really rather not,” he starts to say, legs bracing. Midway through his response there’s a brush of air against his cheek, and then the gunman’s cap is no longer on his head.

Someone’s trying to steal my thunder, he thinks for an incredulous moment as the gunman reacts to the sudden departure of his hat by stupidly dropping his already-low defenses. Jerome swings a fist at him, the hit landing solidly at his temple, and is only barely aware of Jackie screaming and running as he’s pistol whipped across the face. The pain flares, but he’s still got an ace up his sleeve to be smiling about, and the gunman is close enough that it takes no time at all to retaliate with his knife.

The slice of a blade is apparently shocking enough that afterwards it’s almost easy to wrestle the gun out of his hands and deliver a shot to the man’s leg -shoot first; but leave them able to answer questions later- and the movement from their brief altercation has been enough for the kerchief to slip down and reveal the man’s full face, which is hastily introduced to the bottom of Jerome’s boot. Of course, that’s when the other low lives decide to join the party. In the back of his mind he notes that neither of the other goons followed after Jackie. He moves in time for the crowbar to hit his shoulder instead of his head and he turns to lift the gun between the fucker’s eyes as he winds up for another swing and-

Mister crowbar screams and drops his weapon, a knife sticking into his bicep.

Interesting. 

He takes a short moment to weigh the pros and cons of shooting someone when they’re already wounded, but his attention is drawn briefly away when he sees that the guy with the baseball bat is preoccupied with fighting someone else. Though they’re also dressed all in black with their face concealed Jerome feels it’s safe to assume that he’s the knife wielding good samaritan.

“Ah, my hero,” Jerome muses aloud before, in a fit of generosity, he shoots the crowbar wielding assailant in the foot instead of somewhere more vital. They drop to their knees and Jerome rips the kerchief off of their face before slamming his fist to their temple. The sound of the gunshot and ensuing scream causes the man with the bat to pause, a terrible mistake on his part, and Jerome watches avidly as the smaller figure in black manages to disarm him in a few fluid moves, then slams the bat over his head and watches him crumple to the ground.

Jerome can hear the thud of his own heart in his ears as he takes in the damage around him in the ensuing almost silence –two of three men on the ground are manfully trying to stifle their sounds of pain without success- and heat is blooming across his entire jaw, promising one hell of a bruise in the morning. 

But he can’t help but laugh at what a delightfully strange situation this has turned out to be, and remarks to his apparent savior, “remind me to never take my eyes off of you in a fight.”

Instead of doing the right thing and replying the guy drops the bat, turns, and starts jogging away.

“Walking away from a conversation is bad manners,” Jerome calls after him, which is apparently enough to make the guy stop in his tracks. Jerome watches, bemused, as he turns as if to respond, pauses, and then raises his hand in a weak wave before slipping away.

Exceedingly strange. No one’s ever tried to help Jerome out before, not without a million strings attached. 

He looks at the wounded men, raises the gun in the air and quickly calls out, “stay put for a minute or else the next time I lay eyes on you you’re going to get a bullet somewhere even more painful,” as he turns and runs after the mystery man, too amused by the situation to drop it.

They’re fast, faster than he thought they were going to be, and they had a head start. He manages to keep them in sight for a few twists and turns, however as he goes around another corner, maybe ten seconds behind them, they’re nowhere to be found. It’s a long road, blocked off on both sides by compact apartments, and there’s no way he was fast enough to run the entire stretch of road to the end of the street before Jerome turned the corner.

His eyes crawl up the rusty fire escape of one building and he just manages to catch sight of a figure leaping from the four-story apartment rooftop to the three-story building across the narrow street they’d turned off of.

He lets out a low whistle. 

This night certainly has been unexpected on many levels.

He strolls back to the alley and casually steps over the prone form of the man who’d lost his bat. The gunman and crowbar man are gone, not entirely surprising, but they’d left a nice little red trail for him to follow to whatever hole they decided to crawl into. He passes by the gunman’s hat on the way and picks it up, discarding it once he’s pulled the blade free from the cloth.

It’s a knife made for throwing, not fighting, and he doesn’t imagine many people aside from professionals and particularly avid enthusiasts could aim with such skill.

“Well, well. I bet whoever lost this wants it back,” he follows the blood trail, eyes gleaming, “and the other one too, before it ends up getting put away in an evidence locker.”

He’ll free it from flesh and muscle himself if he has to. It’s the least he can do, really. And when he finds the pair of missing criminals, if they’re good and tell him the truth about their intentions tonight, maybe he’ll be generous enough to let the 911 dispatcher know to send some paramedics along with the police.

The trail of blood stops just a little past the mouth of the alley, and he sees a bloody knife on the ground. It seems another conspirator was waiting in the wings with transport, which is just another sign that this likely would not have ended with him handing over his wallet. A four-man team was a bit much for small-time robbery. Kidnapping or murder, on the other hand, sounded just about right.

“Looks like there’s only one left who can give some answers.”

He picks the other blade up, notes the identical weight and appearance, and starts planning.

What were the chances of a knife thrower being out and about while the circus was in town, but not being part of the circus themselves?

He’d wager not very likely.

Looks like he’d be going back to the circus after all.


	3. Saturday Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I finally know how many chapters this will end up (we'll see whether or not that changes, haha).

Saturday morning comes far too soon. After calling the police to pick up the slowly rousing man in the alley he’d made the responsible decision of calling Jeremiah and informing him of the suspiciously timed alley cornering and telling him that, wherever Jackie may have run off to -kidnapped? Picked up by co-conspirators? Decided to drive away without looking back once she’d reached her car?- she certainly wasn’t with him any longer. 

He almost wishes he could have done neither; the police had had multiple questions for him and made him promise to come in to the station to speak with a sketch artist, and his brother had been willing to look into the possibility of Mister Lamont’s involvement but had been damn pissy about the whole conversation. Honestly, if he didn’t have plans for the ensuing morning he might have dragged the crook off, fuck police involvement, and spent a few hours prying answers out of him one way or another. 

As it is, when he groggily rolls out of bed in the morning he has two assailants in the wind, one in lockup, and a plan to get to the circus before they open to the public so that he can work some ‘I’m only trying to find the man that saved my life’ magic on the crowd to get some answers.

And track down Bruce again; maybe corner him just to see how he reacts, maybe tease him about how close he’d been to getting caught yesterday, maybe give him a few pointers on how to steal from people who already know the tricks of the trade.

But first he needs the energy to get over there and enact his plans.

Jeremiah actually startles when Jerome drops into the seat across from him at the kitchen table. A reasonable reaction, since Jerome has a habit of sleeping in until he gets too bored to stay in bed. Jerome can’t remember the last time they crossed paths in their home during the wretched hours of the morning, even on weekends when Jeremiah allows himself to sleep in.

Jeremiah recovers quickly, and then has the cheek to look at his watch in the least subtle way possible before remarking, “you’re up early.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Jerome snips back, cutting an apple into wedges.

“You look like you got into a fight against a bar stool and lost.”

“Once again, I fully realize this. If you have nothing new to bring to this conversation maybe you should stop talking.”

“Jackie Lamont called the police last night once she got to her car and informed them of the situation,” Jeremiah says primly as he skips over the sports section of the newspaper, “she’s going in today to give a statement.”

Jerome pauses mid-slice and points the paring knife at his brother accusingly. “And how do you know that? Got someone in the GCPD feeding you information?”

“She contacted me this morning and told me herself.” He folds the newspaper closed and sets it beside his dirty dishes, appearing contemplative. “I must admit, I am so used to people looking the other way and not bothering to report anything that I find it difficult to determine whether she’s doing this in a genuine effort to be helpful-” Jerome snorts and Jeremiah pauses just long enough to frown at him, “-or if she’s trying to undo whatever damage last night caused.”

“Hack her phone or something.”

“I do not ‘hack’ things. That is not within my scope of intelligence.”

“Sounds like a lie, but okay. Ask one of your underlings to hack her phone.”

“As if I would waste anyone’s time on something so insignificant.” Jeremiah rolls his eyes before standing up from the table, straightening out his cufflinks, and picking up his plate and mug. “In any case, if Mister Lamont had chosen not to sign the deal with us his own company likely wouldn’t have lasted much longer. We gave him a fair deal, better than we needed to, but some people are spiteful even in the face of generosity.” A shadow passes over his face. “If he thought he could kidnap or maim you to get back at me-”

Jerome bites loudly into an apple slice and the darkness on Jeremiah’s face lifts to reveal his bland, boring business expression. “In any case,” he puts his dishes in the sink for the maid to deal with later, “it would at least explain why Miss Lamont requested you as a chaperone.” He adjusts his glasses and turns his back. “I had wondered about her taste.”

“Bold thing for you to say when I’m running on four hours of sleep and have a knife in my hand.”

Jeremiah glances over his shoulder.

“It’s a reasonable deduction. Besides, we both know I’ve gotten better at dodging your tantrums over the years.” He smooths his hands over his shirt, always so concerned about appearance even though he’s nearly always alone. “I’m going to the office for a few hours, try not to get yourself kidnapped while I’m gone.” 

He leaves without looking back.

“Dodging my tantrums, please,” Jerome says aloud as he finishes the apple, “you couldn’t dodge a mosquito while wearing netting.” He laughs to himself, slapping a hand against the tabletop.

Nothing woke him up quite as quickly as laughter. 

“Now then, to go find my knife wielding savior,” he announces, grabbing a packet of poptarts for the road.

And he slips his gun into a shoulder holster underneath his jacket, just in case.

And if he happens to steal a tube of the concealer that Jeremiah uses to cover up the frequent dark circles under his eyes, well, that’s no one’s business but his own. 

The drive through the city is boring and his fingers tap relentlessly against the steering wheel as he passes through the sparse weekend traffic. He parks as close to the entrance as he can get and walks briskly over the open field. The circus isn’t due to open for another two or three hours so the stalls and attractions are currently unattended. He glances at the shooting gallery as he passes by, grins at the memories, and keeps on track until he reaches the tent.

There’s a dozen or so people inside, most seem to be going through a rehearsal of some sort and don’t notice him slip inside. One man, the ringmaster from last night, happens to glance over and then does a double-take.

“We’re not open,” he calls out authoritatively, everyone else in the tent pauses what they’re doing, “get out.”

Jerome lifts both of his hands in supplication but takes a few steps forward. All eyes are on him, as they should be, and the stage is set.

Time to get to work.

“I’m sorry about barging in before opening,” he settles a contrite look on his face, “but I’m afraid I couldn’t wait any longer.” He looks around the tent at the people before him. Meaningful. Genuine. Trustworthy. “My name is Jerome Valeska, and I believe that someone who works with this circus saved my life last night.”

There are a few soft gasps from the crowd. The ringmaster looks unmoved, but someone else ducks down to whisper something in his ear and his eyes slowly grow wide.

There are many benefits of being a billionaire. One of them is casually dropping your name and watching the world turn itself inside out to keep in your good graces.

“You see,” he clasps his hands behind his back and walks further into the tent, catching peoples’ eyes as he circles around them, “last night, after spending a pleasant evening at this very place, I was escorting a young lady to her car when we found ourselves boxed in by three crooks. One of the many hazards of living in Gotham, I’m afraid.” A wry smiles twists at his lips briefly. “Under usual circumstances I’d have no problem following their instructions, but last night one of them had a gun.” He comes to a stop before a matronly woman, but he lets his gaze go unfocussed as if he’s looking far away. “You may be unfamiliar with the story-” unlikely, since everyone here was old enough to remember this piece of groundbreaking news “-but years ago my own dear mother found herself in a similar situation. She gave that crook all that she had, but it wasn’t enough.”

His eyes become glassy and he deliberately makes eye contact with the woman. “He murdered her in the alleyway. She was-” his voice cracks “-she was my mother. And she was suddenly gone.”

The sight of actual tears welling up in her eyes in an excellent sign.

He breaks the gaze as if his own emotions are too much for him to bear and pins his eyes on the ground. “That was all I could think about when I saw the gun. My mother’s death, and the likelihood that I would be killed the same way. I couldn’t move, not even to give into their demands,” his voice wavers, “I was so scared.”

They hang onto his every word as if diamonds are dripping out of his mouth. He really deserves an award for this performance, though he’ll settle for a few answers.

He takes a deep breath, straightens himself out, and turns to face the ringmaster. “But then the impossible happened. Someone, a brave soul who I believe is somewhere on these fairgrounds, did the unthinkable and intervened. In a city like Gotham sometimes it’s hard to remember that there are good people out there, that even ordinary people can do extraordinary good.” They’re all listening so avidly, so focused on him, so desperate for stories with heroes and happy endings to exist. 

Ha, heroes.

“All I’m asking for,” he says humbly, “is a little bit of help to find the hero who saved my life.” He takes a folded piece of cloth out of his inner jacket pocket and begins unfolding it. “And I believe that someone here can help me do that.”

The knives gleam dully in the dim light of the tent. Jerome bites back a smirk when everyone comes a little closer to look at them.

“We haven’t had a knife thrower in years Mister Valeska,” says the ringmaster, “safety issue, some mayors from the most prominent cities we visit, Gotham included, were complaining about the possible danger to spectators. It was easier to take that part of the show out than to lose our welcome in profitable cities.”

Huh. Jerome wonders if his own little knife throwing show with the mayor from years back had somehow influenced that decision. 

He schools his expression into one of compassionate understanding. “Some people just don’t understand the amount of training and discipline that goes into the performing arts.” Several performers around him make subtle nods in agreement. “What happened to the knife thrower?”

“Kept him on, of course. Gave him a new job, but it’s been years since he’s thrown.”

The woman he’d held eye contact with speaks up. “Those do look like his knives, from what I can remember of them, and there’s no way anyone would have been able to steal them off of him. He’s an orderly type, knows immediately if his belongings have been messed with. But,” she sighs, “he was here working well into the night, so I’m afraid it couldn’t have been him.”

“Well,” a new voice breaks in, a man who looks vaguely embarrassed, “I don’t know for sure, but I heard from Linda, who heard from Troy, who swears that even though he was drunk he wasn’t seeing things-”

“Get on with it!” The ringmaster commands.

“Alfred had his knives out just a few weeks back! Was sharpening them right on his doorstep when Troy was passing by. It’s kind of weird for him to be doing maintenance on them if they’re not being used, right?”

Bingo.

“That’s incredibly helpful, thank you all for your kind assistance.” He folds the cloth back over the knives. “One final request before I take my leave and let you folks get back to work; where do I find Alfred? I’d like to return these in person, if I may.” 

They tell him without hesitation. 

He throws another grateful smile over his shoulder as he ducks out of the tent and it falls from his face when he steps back out into the muggy daylight and strides to the trailers out back. He spots the one with the red door easily, hops onto the doorstep, and knocks rhythmically before smoothing his features out into something unassuming and non-threatening. 

No answer.

He waits for a few beats before knocking again. “Hello?”

Still no answer. Irritating.

He knocks again, harder. “I believe I have something of yours,” he calls out loudly.

“Oh, do you?” An accented voice drawls from behind him, “I think you may be mistaken, sir, as I’ve not lost track of anything.”

Jerome turns and eyes the man, Alfred, curiously. Too tall, too broad, he’s not the guy from last night. However, he might be the final barrier separating Jerome from his reason for being here. He’s wearing an apron and has a towel thrown over his shoulder -downgraded from a performer to doing manual labor, what a shame- and the serious look on his face makes Jerome think he may be more difficult to crack than the people in the tent. A less dramatic approach will probably be the key here.

“Well,” he takes the folded cloth back out of his pocket, “if these aren’t yours then I’m curious as to who else they could belong to.” He holds the uncovered knives out. Alfred glances down briefly but his face gives nothing away. “Someone helped me out of a pretty rough situation last night, he left these behind in the shuffle. Didn’t get a name, but I figured he was a worker here.”

“And how did you figure that?” Alfred crosses his arms and looks him up and down, assessing. 

“Intuition,” Jerome replies with a smile. “Now, are these yours or not, because if they aren’t…” He lets the sentence hang in the air, unfinished. 

“They were mine, once. Since you’ve come all this way you may give them back to me for safekeeping.”

“I’d really appreciate the opportunity to give them back to the current owner personally. I need to thank him for saving my life after all.”

“Saving your life?” Alfred’s voice becomes sharper, eyes narrowing as Jerome nods.

“Yes. I could have been shot were it not for him.”

Alfred looks as though he can hardly hold back a sudden onslaught of frustration. He mutters, “foolish boy,” just loud enough for Jerome to hear before squaring his shoulders.

“I’m afraid that since I’m not his keeper I’m unsure of where he wandered off to this morning. Didn’t even see him take breakfast.” The corners of his mouth turn downward in displeasure. “He’ll be back for his opening duties within the hour, I’m sure, but since I’m certain that a man such as yourself has better things to do on a weekend-”

“I’ll wait,” Jerome cuts in, “I don’t mind.”

The frown on Alfred’s face becomes more apparent. “I can’t let you wait on the grounds before we open. Nothing personal, but no one can spare the time to make sure you won’t get into mischief.”

“Give me their name, then. I’ll return these to you, but please, can’t you give me their name?”

Alfred looks unmoved. He’s probably the toughest crowd Jerome has ever seen.

“And what do you plan on doing with that name?”

“Isn’t it obvious? It’s rude not to say a ‘thank you’ in person after you’ve received help.”

Alfred’s cold behavior thaws ever-so-slightly at that, but it’s not enough.

“While it’s good of you to be so considerate I really must insist that you leave these with me, without a name.”

This isn’t how this is supposed to go at all! Jerome wants to snarl, wants to curse. Why so secretive? Why so protective? _What is it that you’re hiding?_ He fights to keep his composure and barely notices when Alfred’s eyes flicker worriedly to the side.

But he does notice. He fights the impulse to whirl in the direction, to pounce on whatever weakness has shown its face.

“If I leave these with you, will you at least give the owner a message for me?”

“Yes,” Alfred holds his hand out, suddenly impatient, “what’s the message?”

“Tell him that I appreciate the timing, and the effort, and the- you know what? It really would be better for me to tell him myself.” He turns in the direction Alfred had looked and freezes for a second.

What were the chances? What were the chances?

Just a few trailers away, heading towards them with his nose in a book, is Bruce. Bruce who had moved like a predator, who had already been interesting enough to catch his eye, whose appearance must have been the reason for Alfred’s sudden abruptness.

Jerome feels curiously light as he starts to wonder.

Bruce glances up from the book, catches sight of him, and stops mid-step. Then his eyes drift down to the package in Jerome’s hands and _wow_ that expression is all the confirmation that he needs.

He feels giddy, maybe even ecstatic. Bruce and the knife thrower had been intriguing enough as separate entities; but as one and the same? Jerome can’t -absolutely cannot- leave this alone.

He closes the distance between them in a few quick strides, ignores Alfred’s protests, and locks eyes with Bruce.

“I believe I may have something of yours.”

Bruce holds his gaze, his book shutting with a dull clap.

“It seems you do.”

Jerome distantly wonders if what he’s feeling now is anything like when good ol’ Prince Charming found his Cinderella. This situation is obviously better though, because he doubts Cinderella ever stole wallets right under people’s noses, or threw knives, or leapt off the roof of one building onto another.

“Was it to even out the scales? You take something of mine, I get something of yours?”

A small smile tugs at Bruce’s lips. Jerome wants it to widen enough to show teeth. Wants to be the direct cause of it. 

“Something like that.”

“Very fair of you, most pickpockets settle with giving someone an apology after being caught crossing into their personal space.”

Bruce’s smile widens just a touch, turning wry. “I suppose that makes me highly unusual.”

Highly fascinating, actually. 

Bruce tucks the book under his arm and takes the knives out of Jerome’s hands. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Jerome insists as he starts leaning forward into Bruce’s space. He _wants-_

“Bruce,” Alfred’s voice cuts in sharply, “you’ve got chores to do before we open. Hop to it.”

“Yes Alfred,” Bruce agrees obligingly before his attention turns back to Jerome. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about last night Mister- I’m terribly sorry, I know we introduced ourselves yesterday but I seem to have forgotten your name. May I ask for a re-introduction?”

Well, since he was so polite about it.

“Jerome Valeska. Call me Jerome. And don’t worry, my lips are sealed.” No way was he sharing such an enthralling find with anyone else. 

He watches avidly for a spark of recognition in Bruce’s eyes. He knows faked ignorance when he sees it, had enough experience with it when growing up -from adults who wanted influence and kids who wanted favors- that he couldn’t ignore it if he tried.

“Jerome,” Bruce repeats with ease, like he doesn’t know the weight behind the name. He’s not a Gotham native, so maybe he doesn’t automatically link Jerome to Valeska Enterprises the way everyone else has his entire life. He’s unsure whether that’s a good or bad thing. He is sure that he wants Bruce to say his name again. “My name is Bruce Wayne. I’d offer you a handshake, but I’m half afraid I that I wouldn’t get it back.”

Jerome barks out a laugh.

“Bruce.” Alfred cuts in. “Now.”

“Goodbye Jerome, try to keep out of trouble.”

“Right back atcha, Brucie.”

Bruce smiles and steps around him and yeah, wow, no way is he letting this stop here. He has more questions that need answering, and perhaps a bit of flirting to do. Bruce is just too fun, he can’t help himself. 

He clearly can’t do anything more now, not if the look Alfred is sending his way as he pointedly guides Bruce into the trailer is any indication. He looks down at his watch. Two hours to kill until opening. 

He’ll drop by the GCPD to see their sketch artist and find out if anything new has come out since last night. Maybe his current good mood will remain long enough that if he happens to see Jackie there he’ll be able to refrain from hurling accusations at her. After, if he has the time, he may grab something to-go and bother Jeremiah in person to see if he’s found anything out yet. If not maybe he’ll be able to successfully goad him into hacking something.

And afterwards it would be time for another evening spent at the circus. This time with pleasant, unexpectedly dangerous company, a great match for someone as pleasant and dangerous as himself.

He’s excited just thinking about it. It’s not every day, or even every year, that he meets someone whose company is so... Entertaining. 

Oh Brucie, he thinks as he whistles on his way back to his car, we’d make a good team, you and me.


	4. Saturday Afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to be away from my computer for several days so it may take a while for me to hammer out the next chapter. Hope the Jerome x Bruce interaction tides you over till then. :)
> 
> As always, enjoy.

His time at the GCPD drags on longer than he wants -if the law enforcement in this city could focus less on bribes and more on their jobs that would be great- and they barely even have any new information since the man in custody was refusing to talk until his lawyer was present.

Jerome should have kicked him awake before the police arrived last night and threatened to pry his fingernails off one by one until he got some answers.

He texts Jeremiah about the lack of progress along with what seems to be the only new detail the police had managed to stumble upon; the man’s name. He leaves it up to his brother to do what he likes with the information.

In the meantime at least he has his gun on him in case someone tries anything.

He slips into his car and into the steady stream of weekend traffic. His fingers tap restlessly against the wheel while he’s stopped at a red light, eagerness getting the better of him.

Honestly, he’s looking forward to what’s coming more than some of the dates he’s been on. 

His phone buzzes, likely Jeremiah calling to nag at him, and Jerome easily ignores it as he wonders about what other fun hobbies Bruce might have. The possibilities seem endless.

The phone buzzes again; typical Jeremiah tactic to call and call and call. Jerome contemplates answering his phone just so that he can hang up on him before turning the power off altogether.

It’s an amusing enough idea, and it’ll piss Jeremiah off, so he turns down a side street and parks so that he can pick up the call on the third attempt. But it’s not Jeremiah who greets him by name when he answers. It’s Jackie. His hand on the steering wheel clenches.

“How did you get this number?”

“I asked your brother for it.”

Looks like he was going to have to pay Jeremiah a visit after all. Maybe threaten to give his personal cell number out to girls and see how he likes it.

“I suppose if you’re calling then that means you’ve got something to say to me?” He can’t be bothered to hide the suspicion in his tone.

“I know how it might have looked, me leading you into that alley and all, but I didn’t have anything to do with last night.”

“Really? Why’d you run off then?”

There’s a pause long enough that for a moment he thinks the call dropped.

“There was a man with a gun,” she annunciates haltingly, like she thinks he’s crazy -which is fair, he has his moments- and continues, “and there were two more men behind us. I was scared, you weren’t cooperating, and then the scuffle started and I don’t know about you but I’d really like to avoid getting shot.”

“That sounds reasonable enough. What about dear old dad, then? He got any reason to send goons after me?”

“Why is everyone in this city so fucking suspicious of people,” she snaps, “I call the police to let them know something’s happening, I go in to make a statement, I try to find out whether you’d been shot because I heard gunshots while I was running away, and somehow that all makes me a disreputable character?!” She curses loudly, and Jerome pulls the phone away from his ear for a few seconds.

“That righteous anger doesn’t give me an answer to my question.”

“No. He wouldn’t do that, you’ll see. Once the police track down the van that picked two of those guys up-”

“You saw the getaway car?”

“Even better, I saw the plates too. Like I said, once the police track that van down you’ll see it’s some other disgruntled soul that wants to bring you into harm’s way.”

Saw the getaway car leave but didn’t circle back to check on him. Had she been too scared to do so? Or maybe she had enough faith in the police force that she assumed they’d be there within minutes to ‘help’ him? Maybe she’d just had enough for the night and didn’t want any further involvement?

Or: none of the above?

“Excuse me if I’m not entirely convinced.”

“You’re not excused. Fuck you.”

“You’re not my type, sorry.” He smooths back his hair as Jackie lets out a shrill, angry noise. “In the future check out the crime statistics of places you’re planning to visit. You may find there’s a direct correlation between illegal doings and suspicion.”

“Believe me, that’s what I’ll be doing from now on,” she bites out. “Right after I get out of this city and never look back.”

She ends the call and Jerome tosses his phone onto the passenger seat, unbothered. He takes a turn that will bring him back downtown; he can spare at least half an hour to terrorize Jeremiah in his office for giving out his number. Even if it had been some sort of ploy to appear more trusting in order to get Jackie’s guard down -which is possible- Jerome would have appreciated a damned heads-up. The lack of communication isn’t even entirely a surprise. Jeremiah is lucky he’s so smart, otherwise no one would want to hire him.

He pulls into his parking space and scans himself into the building, nodding to the lone security guard manning the lobby as he strolls into the elevators and pushes the button for the top floor. Jeremiah, in his world-class paranoia that’s composed mostly of ‘people might want to kidnap me to figure out what I’m working on’, has all the elevators, stairwells, and the entire top floor littered with extra security cameras whose feeds go directly to a station of monitors in his office, so there’s no doubt in Jerome’s head that he knows he’s coming. That’s why he doesn’t bother to knock or announce himself, just swings the door to Jeremiah’s office open with fervor.

“Someone’s been bad, giving their dear bother’s personal number out to anyone who asks.”

Jeremiah briefly spares a glance in his direction before his eyes fall back down to the blueprint in front of him. “She seemed upset that the police were questioning her involvement, and she was very adamant about getting in touch with you, it was the easiest solution.”

“That’s not exactly what I wanted to hear.”

“Ah,” Jeremiah doesn’t even look up, “did you want an apology?”

“I’d actually rather you beg my forgiveness, but close enough.”

“I would prefer not to, if it’s all the same to you.” Jeremiah rolls up his blueprint carefully and stores it away in a long plastic tube. “How about I give you a few facts and we can call it even.”

“Where’d these facts come from? You hack her facebook account?”

“No.” Jeremiah switches his attention over to his computer. “Although I did spend more time than I ever wanted to on social media scrolling through her private instagram.”

Jerome blinks slowly. “Did you have to make yourself an instagram account to do that?” That was... Baffling and hilarious in equal measures.

“Never mind that.”

That was a yes, holy shit, years of avoiding social media and he finally made an exception purely to scroll through a girl’s instagram for clues. How thoughtful. Jerome was never going to let him live this down.

“You are hereby forgiven for giving out my personal number, although you are still an idiot for doing it without telling me.”

Jeremiah frowns at him. “I haven’t even told you what I found yet.”

“Doesn’t matter, still forgiven. Is your user name just your full name?”

“No.” His frown deepens. “Someone else had my name as their -it doesn’t matter! What matters is this.” He takes a moment to compose himself and slides a few printed sheets across his desk. Jerome takes them with a smirk.

“You could have just shown them to me on your phone.”

“No way in hell am I letting you near my phone.”

Oh, that sounded like a challenge.

“What am I looking at here?” Jerome slips behind the desk and Jeremiah eyes him warily.

“What I’m hoping will be familiar faces. Miss Lamont was taking photos and uploading them last night; as I was scrolling through I saw a few frames where some hooligan types are staring you down from a distance. As well as a short video of you cursing as you threw balls into a metal jug.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t consent to video or photographs being taken of me.” He says it as a joke, but Jeremiah doesn’t seem to take it as one.

“When has that ever stopped anyone,” he asks, eyes distant. Their childhood spent in the limelight had always taken more of a toll on him, it might even be one of the multitude of reasons that he was so paranoid now. “In any case, do these men look familiar or not?”

Jerome flips through the printouts and nods. “Yep, these look like my alleyway friends from last night. Which means that I just wasted my precious time talking to a sketch artist at the GCPD. Fucking fantastic.”

“At least now we know for sure that they were specifically targeting you; it wasn’t just by chance. Once you got away from the crowd they saw an opportunity and took it.”

“Is anything ever by chance when it comes to you and me and bad news?”

It’s very telling when Jeremiah doesn’t answer.

“So, what now? Are you sending these to the cops so they can try and find the other two guys?”

Jeremiah nods. “I believe that the photos and the details of the getaway car will be enough to resolve this.”

“Do you really have that much faith in the system?”

“Look at it this way: the GCPD cannot afford to let us down,” Jeremiah states. “The Commissioner isn’t going to pull any punches with you being targeted. Valeska Enterprises keeps this city running, he would be forcibly retired if something was allowed to happen to you after all of this.”

“Aw,” Jerome coos as he inches closer, “you do care.”

“Get your hand off of my phone.”

“You know, you’re the least fun person I know,” Jerome tells him as he takes out his own phone and captures his brother’s irritated look on camera.

“What are you even doing?”

“I’m going to send you a photo of yourself.”

“Why?”

Jerome looks up from the screen and grins. “So that you can have a profile picture for your instagram. This expression really highlights who you are as a person.”

“Exhausted from having to perpetually deal with an overgrown child?”

“Stuffy and boring.” He puts his phone back in his pocket. “Wound up so tight that the minute someone who’s caught your eye so much as smiles at you you’re gonna-”

“Get out of my office Jerome. Go do-” his face scrunches up “-whatever it is you do on weekends. I don’t want to see you again until Tuesday.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got much more important things to do than bother you.” Jeremiah gives him a look of frank disbelief. “Starting now,” he amends, fixing up his jacket and running a hand through his hair on his way out the door.

“I’m sure you do,” Jeremiah agrees, tone dry at dust.

Jerome flips him the bird before the door shuts.

And now with those extra little errands for the day finished he can finally go have some fun. 

He’s a bit hazy on the details of his own plan even as he puts his car in park across from the circus. Find Bruce at his booth, obviously. Buy a bulk of turns so that he has an excuse to stick around, probably. Entice him into a conversation along the line and start figuring out what makes him tick, what makes him steal, what makes him play hero in what is arguably the worst city to do so. 

Flirt.

Bruce will likely have questions of his own too; he must be curious about why Jerome helped him out the night before. That was the impression Jerome got in any case, what with all that intense staring directed his way. 

He should probably think about what his answer to that should be, since he suspects ‘I wanted to see you in action and you ended up being entertaining enough that I decided against re-planting the wallet on you and went with humiliating the other guy instead. Aren’t we both glad I did?’ wouldn’t exactly endear him to Bruce and oh, he couldn’t have that right when he was about to get started.

He strides over the field quickly, a man on a mission, and he stops short once he’s standing in front of the shooting gallery because that. Is not. Who he wants to see.

The teenager guilty of the crime of being not-Bruce sees him and starts his spiel, “Hey there, it’s five to play-”

“Where’s Bruce?” It’s possible that his tone is a little too harsh, or his expression is a little too livid, because the guy shrinks back from him.

Who’d been throwing wrenches in his plan? Who was to blame for this terrible oversight? Was it Alfred? The old man certainly had looked overprotective and like he thought that if Jerome never got an opportunity to speak to Bruce again it would be too soon.

“Chill dude,” the teenager weakly tells him. Chill, him? Never. “It was Bruce’s turn for the tank, he’s, like, literally right behind you.”

Jerome whirls around, eyes searching and yes, that is Bruce sitting on the platform over the dunk tank, gazing up at the clouds overhead in boredom as he swings his bare feet back and forth. He’s in an all-black ensemble, fitted pants and a t-shirt that shows off his arms nicely. All that black really makes his eyes, dusted over with white and lined with small teardrops in the centers of his lower eyelids, pop. It’s not overly garish, for clown makeup anyways. The best word to describe it is probably cute, though Jerome can hardly believe that anyone he finds interesting could have such a word associated with them.

This wasn’t in line with what he had planned, but he could work with it. He was flexible that way.

Jerome approaches the tank and Bruce’s eyes finally drop back down to the Earth below. He catches sight of him and looks somewhat surprised, but he smiles and lifts his hand in that same, strange little wave that he’d done the night before. Now that he isn’t some shadowy figure without a name or a face the motion seems more shy than anything else.

Cute, Jerome’s traitorous mind croons.

“Hey stranger,” Bruce calls out when he’s only a few steps away. Jerome’s lips twitch.

“Hey yourself. What trouble did you get into that lead you here?”

“I never get into trouble,” Bruce tells him, excruciatingly straightforward. Jerome’s going to go ahead and assume that what he means is that he’s never gotten caught doing anything that required some sort of disciplinary action. “It was just my turn.”

Jerome’s witty response is interrupted by the woman running the dunk tank. He buys five tries just to keep her from bothering him and then walks right up to the tank, ignores the way she sputters about ‘rules’ and ‘throwing from the line’ behind him, and lightly tosses the first ball over his shoulder.

“That’s an interesting way to play,” Bruce tells him, “though your success rate is bound to suffer.”

“That depends on how you define success in this situation.”

“I think most people would define it as throwing a ball just right so that it triggers the platform I’m on to swing down on a hinge and drop me into the water.” Bruce’s smile is cheeky. “How would you define it?”

Saying ‘getting to talk to you’ is way too corny to actually verbalize, so Jerome shrugs his shoulders, tosses another ball behind him, and says, “Seeing you again.”

Wait.

That was also really corny. _Fuck._ Too late to take it back now.

Bruce’s eyebrows, real and painted, raise for a few seconds before he grins wide enough to show off his unsurprisingly perfect teeth. Jerome feels a flicker of pride at being the cause of it.

“You’re a smooth talker,” Bruce jokingly accuses.

“Guilty as charged.” He throws another ball. “So, do you prefer working in your booth or taking it easy up there?”

“I prefer the shooting gallery. This can get quite boring and I’m not much for sitting still and waiting for something to happen.”

“Me either.” Another ball gone. 

There are so many questions he wants to ask, but he’s not sure how closely the woman running the tank is listening to their conversation. Plus this isn’t exactly the setting he’d envisioned: separated by a measly little counter, able to talk in low voices since Bruce’s knife skills were apparently very hush hush.

“You do certainly come off as a man of action.” 

“Flatterer,” Jerome murmurs. The last ball thuds onto the ground behind him.

Dilemma time; did he bother buying more tries, or should he assume he’d made his point and wouldn’t be interrupted?

Best to play it safe.

“One moment please.” He turns back and purchases fifteen more tries. The woman eyes him strangely as he hands the money over.

“Did you, uh, want any of the balls?”

“I’m good.” He makes his way back to the tank and catches the sound of Bruce’s chuckle. 

Music to his ears.

“Look,” he splays a hand against the cool glass and gazes up, “I’ll cut to the chase; I’ve got questions for you, and I think you have questions for me. It might be nice for us to have a conversation where we’re a little more eye-to-eye.” And alone.

“It might,” Bruce agrees genially. Jerome licks his dry lips.

“We’re in agreement then?”

“Yes.”

“No take backs?”

Bruce chuckles again, “no take backs.”

“Great. And Bruce?”

“Yes?”

“I hope that makeup is waterproof.” 

“Wha-”

He slams his fist against the red button beside the tank and Bruce drops into the water.

Bruce did say he didn’t like sitting and waiting after all, and Jerome was all about providing diversions. 

Bruce surfaces with a laugh, his now limp hair hanging over his face. He pushes it back, eyes glinting as he finds Jerome grinning on the other side of the glass.

“You’re kind of an ass,” his tone is wonderfully amused. 

“Guilty as charged for that as well.”

Bruce hefts himself up on the edge of the tank, still smiling wide, and looks down at him warmly. Water drips from his hair to land on Jerome’s upturned face. 

Jerome’s chest feels oddly tight. Fluttery.

“I’ll be off tank duty by 6. I’m free for a chat after that.”

“Then I’ll see you at 6.”

He feels impatient for the time to fly by already.

Bruce climbs up the tank’s small ladder and gets back into position, his black shirt clinging to his torso in a very appealing manner. Jerome finds it particularly difficult to look away.

Not what he’d planned, but a rousing success overall.

If any crook tried anything that would make him late for tonight he was going to stab them in the kidneys.


	5. Saturday Night I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! :)  
> Somehow, even though this fic has only covered two days thus far, I feel as though I'm writing a slowburn. I guess I'm just not used to writing longer works anymore, haaa.

Jerome wiles away the hours of what could have been excruciating boredom by digging out the kit from his old Valeska Foundation broadcast. It’s not the first time he’s taken it out to practice, he’d worked too hard learning the skills to let himself forget, but it is the first time in a long time that practicing is just a fun as it was when he’d been younger.

Perhaps there’s something about potentially showing off to someone whose opinion he would actually care to hear that brings the magic back. Or maybe he just wants to end the night with a knife throwing competition that he doesn’t want to lose. Could be either. Could be both.

When it hits 4:50 he starts putting everything back in its proper place, and at 5:05 he takes one last look at himself in a full-length mirror before heading out.

The evening is in full swing and parking is even more terrible than it had been the previous night. Jerome wouldn’t be entirely surprised if one fourth of all the city’s cars were crammed into every lot and side street within walking distance of the fairgrounds.

People were always desperate for a diversion in Gotham. What was more diverting than the circus?

The walk to the fairgrounds flies by, his thoughts abuzz the entire length of the journey, and soon enough he’s at the appointed place at the appointed time. Bruce is no longer in the tank, instead leaning up against the ice cream truck where Jerome had stood last night when first catching sight of him. He’s wrapped up in a towel and speaking with a curly haired young woman, his own slightly damp hair curling around his ears.

It’s the woman who sees him first and Jerome feels somewhat affronted when she looks him up and down with nothing but boredom on her face, then more so when she leans in awfully close to whisper something in Bruce’s ear while continuing to stare at him. 

His temper doesn’t get the chance to boil over because Bruce immediately turns to see him and smiles, which is likely the most placating action that Jerome has ever personally witnessed. Bruce says something to his companion, who rolls her eyes at him before slipping away into the crowd.

“Hey Jerome,” Bruce greets, rubbing at his face with the towel. All that remains of his clown makeup is a bit of dark smudging around the eyes. “You’re right on time.”

“Punctuality is one of my many virtues,” he intones seriously, “one might even go so far as to say that it’s one I’ve had since birth.”

Bruce chuckles and wraps the towel tighter around himself.

“I need to head back to the trailer to get some dry clothes. Would you rather wait here or walk with me for a bit?”

“I’ll tag along,” Jerome says, falling into step beside him. He’s not usually one for small talk, which he classifies as the dullest kind of inter-office chatter, but for the mysterious and enthralling Bruce he’ll make an exception. “So, how was work?”

“Not bad. Mostly it was kids trying to dunk me today, and not many were successful. Then Selina showed up ten minutes before I was finished and got me in one try. Though I suppose it’s my own fault for telling her I’d be on tank duty,” he tells Jerome with a fond tone.

“And Selina is?”

“The lady I was with. She’s an old friend; met her here in Gotham before I was old enough to do anything around the circus.” Bruce’s voice lowers as they approach the tent. “I used to sneak off with her while everyone else was working and she would show me some of the city.”

“And no one noticed?” Now _that_ sounded like gross negligence. Letting an out-of-town kid run around, essentially unsupervised in Gotham? Bruce is lucky he didn’t get snatched.

Bruce shrugs. “I was a quiet kid, not much of a troublemaker, and I usually stayed put when adults told me to. That was enough for me to escape the notice of most people when I happened to stray out of their line of sight.”

“Most?”

“Everyone but Alfred, really. He’s always been protective of me.”

Yeah, he’d noticed.

Bruce comes to a stop just beside the tent. “Speaking of Alfred, he told me that he’d overheard a bit of gossip today about a very sincere sounding man looking for, well, _me_. I think it might be best that you wait for me here. It’s a good thing that Alfred was the only one around when you found me this morning but if someone from the group of people you appealed to catches sight of you walking with me to my trailer I’m pretty sure that their critical thinking skills might be sharp enough to realize that Alfred’s had a lot of opportunity to teach me things over the years, and then they’ll have no trouble putting two and two together.”

“But being seen walking with you this far wasn’t a problem?”

“Jerome,” Bruce’s tone is dry. “You _paid_ to talk to me earlier today. I was able to play it off since you were a part of that spectacle last night; I told the people who were asking questions that you seemed a bit sweet on me.”

Sweet on him? How old-fashioned. Though maybe not entirely inaccurate. 

“But I’m not really the type to take strangers that I’ve only known for a day back to my trailer, so yes, I’m afraid I have to ask you to wait here.”

“Far be it from me to risk your secret identity getting out, my knight in black armor.” 

Bruce hits him lightly on the shoulder. “Stay out of trouble.”

“No promises,” he answers lowly as Bruce walks away. He takes out his phone and keeps himself busy, looking up every once in a while to make sure there aren’t any shady characters staring him down tonight. Nothing appears out of the ordinary, but with a first attempt failing in such a spectacular fashion a second attempt would have to be better thought out and executed.

It’s unlikely that anything will happen to him while the sun is still up, while in this crowded place, but he’ll have to be more vigilant as the night wears on.

Luckily he plans to have a dependable, tenacious presence by his side for the entirety of the evening. Jerome takes a few moments to think about Bruce and himself squaring off against another group of criminals and being able to watch Bruce dole out justice in that fluid, mesmerizing way of his. Better than any professional -legal and not so legal- fight that he’d ever watched. Whoever’s coming after him might not strike two nights in a row, but if they did…

Well, Jerome wouldn’t complain at having the opportunity to see Bruce in action again. As well as getting a well needed work-out himself. It had been a while since the last kidnapping attempt against him -or had it been attempted murder?- had failed. 

“See something interesting?”

Jerome’s eyes snap over to Bruce, who’s somehow managed to walk right up beside him without Jerome hearing him get closer. He’s slipped into black jeans and a t-shirt so worn out that Jerome can’t make heads or tails of the faded print on it. In one hand he holds a plate, in the other he has a couple bundles of cutlery wrapped in paper napkins.

Jerome doesn’t answer. Bruce doesn’t seem to mind. 

“If we walk a little closer to the shoreline we won’t have to worry about anyone eavesdropping or gawking at us. Wasn’t sure if you were hungry, and I couldn’t take a second plate because Alfred would get suspicious, but if you don’t mind sharing I did manage to pick up an extra fork without trouble.”

“How very sly of you.” 

Jerome quickly takes his place walking beside him. “So, Alfred is the one who taught you all the most important life skills, like knife throwing, anything else interesting?” Such as pickpocketing.

“Sewing.”

“Sewing?” Jerome repeats incredulously.

Bruce glances at him out of the corner of his eye, and Jerome catches the way the corner of his mouth tilts upward ever so slightly. “It’s a good skill to have.”

“I’m not saying it isn’t, it just seems very mundane of you.”

“I’m really a very boring person at heart.” Bruce’s tone is monotonous, his face is suddenly stoic. Jerome wonders how many people get fooled by it. 

“Oh Bruce, don’t lie to me. You could walk into any room and be one of the most interesting people there. I would know, I can’t stand boring people.”

Bruce casts another glance in his direction. “I guess I’ll take your word for it, if you’re such an expert.”

They walk until the sounds of the circus are muted behind them and Bruce sits down on the grass, crossing his legs and patting the ground beside him.

“Sit, I promise I don’t bite.”

Jerome stretches out beside him and takes the offered piece of cutlery.

“So, how does a nice young man such as yourself get into pickpocketing?”

“How did you?” Bruce’s eyes glint in the dimming daylight, just as intense as they’d been yesterday. “You took that other wallet off of me last night and I didn’t know about it until you were holding it up in the air.”

“I asked first.”

Bruce rolls his eyes and takes a bite of what looks to be vegetables before answering.

“I guess it started when I made my first friend outside the circus. The details… Aren’t important.” Jerome catches sight of a flush creeping across his cheeks. “I just saw them, and thought they were interesting.”

Yeah, right. ‘Interesting’. 

Jerome wonders if he should feel jealous. 

Bruce pauses to take another bite before continuing. 

“We weren’t fast friends, but I grew on them. Especially when I brought them cotton candy and showed them how to sneak inside the tent. They were a street-kid, had to pickpocket just to get by. I’d never had to worry about food or shelter while growing up so I didn’t fully understand at first, but I, uh, ended up sort of helping them out.”

Little Brucie, leading a pickpocket right into a place full of people who were preoccupied with watching the sights before them. Adorable. 

“Every time the circus came back to that city we’d find each other. I watched them work, sometimes I provided a distraction when it was needed when it came to slipping the wallets back in place, sans a few bills, and then one day after the show had finished they took me to a huge, abandoned building in the city. There were just—just so many kids and teenagers there. You know, I’ve been to a lot of places, but I’ve never seen as city with so many kids on the street as…” He trails off, like he doesn’t want to give anything away even though the answer is obvious. 

“Gotham,” Jerome finishes for him. “I guess that makes your first outside friend Selina?”

Bruce gives him a sullen look and bites into a buttered roll.

“Hey, it’s not like I’m about to go report her or anything. You don’t even have to confirm it if you don’t want to.”

“In any case, my friend wasn’t keeping the score all to themselves, and I thought that it was very Robin Hood of them; taking from someone and giving to people who needed it more. I told them that, once. They laughed in my face.” Bruce looks down at the plate, then up at Jerome, eyebrows furrowing slightly. “Are you not hungry? It’s good, cross my heart.”

Jerome takes a forkful of something to appease him and, okay, that is actually good. He takes another bite and Bruce relaxes slightly. 

“Robin Hood, huh? So I guess you don’t hang on to the cash you steal?”

“Every city has kids on the street, a five-dollar bill that a well-dressed person likely wouldn’t miss could mean the world to them.”

Jerome pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “You didn’t steal a five from my wallet.”

“No. You were well dressed enough that I took forty.” 

“I see how it is.”

“I’d hope so. Wearing that obviously tailored suit jacket out here? You’re lucky it was me who picked your pocket, anyone else would have just taken the whole thing and run.”

Lucky couldn’t even begin to describe it.

“I was technically working, I had a dress code to abide by. Plus I’m just naturally stylish,” He grins wide and runs a hand through his hair.

Bruce raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “What job are you working that you’re escorting ladies around during the night?”

“Is that the question you want me to answer right now, or do you want to hear my pickpocketing origin story?”

“Option two, please.” Bruce sets down the plate and turns to face Jerome, eyes locked directly on him.

“It’s not nearly as engaging as yours, just as a warning.”

“I don’t think that will turn out to be true.” The full weight of Bruce’s attention is heady. Jerome almost thinks he could get drunk on the feeling. “It will just be engaging in a different way.”

Jerome’s treacherous heart skips a beat.

“Well, if you really want to know, it starts out like this.” He clears his throat dramatically. “As a kid I really liked attention. Shocking, I know. I thrived on it; could have eat, sleep, and breathed it. Unfortunately, my brother was always upstaging me in one way or another. Perfect behavior, perfect test scores, skipping grades but still top of the class, unable to do any wrong in the eyes of our mother, that sort of thing.” He looks up at the overcast skyline, the smile slipping off his mouth. “I had to find things I was good at that he wasn’t. My social skills were already _way_ more advanced than his; but being the brother who was able to make eye contact with strangers when he spoke with them didn’t exactly feel like a victory at that age. So, through trial and error I found out I could be quite adept at sleight of hand. Not exactly a skill my mother would be proud of since it wasn’t something that could be exploited for money, well, not in a business setting anyways.” He lets out a laugh.

“I kept at it though. I would go to these swanky parties where people would try to flock around my antisocial brother to ask him how his education was going and I would just-” He raises a hand and mimes plucking something out of thin air. “-snag a key from a pocket, or a necklace from around a neck, and then return it with a smile like the good boy I was supposed to be. Once Jeremiah stopped being forced to go to those parties and I was the only Valeska kid in the room I didn’t really need to do it for attention anymore, but,” he shrugs his shoulders, “it would have been a waste to abandon a skillset like that. I don’t keep what I take either, but it still benefits me in one way or another.” He lays a hand over his chest and locks eyes with Bruce. “I’m a selfish creature at heart.”

Bruce tilts his head slightly, as if regarding him from a different angle will cause him to make more sense. “If you’re so selfish, why did you bother to help me out last night?”

Jerome leans in a little closer, pleased to note that Bruce doesn’t back away.

“You were interesting. Most of the people I interact with are so dull and uninspiring, you were like a breath of fresh air. It would have been a shame for you to get caught.” Bruce doesn’t quite look like he believes him. “Now then. Why did you help me out last night? Was it just to even out the scales?”

Was it just ‘the right thing’ to do?

It’s Bruce who leans closer now, eyes piercing. 

“I think you’re interesting, too.”

Something electric runs up Jerome’s back and he can almost feel himself break into goosebumps. He needs to calm the fuck down; plenty of people think he’s interesting, it’s nothing to lose his head over. Though most probably find him interesting for reasons very different from Bruce. For instance: his name or his bank account.

“What were you even doing in that part of the city?”

“Money drop off.” Bruce straightens his back and Jerome does the same. “I had the throwing knives on me because I’ve been to Gotham more than enough times to know that going around at night without some kind of protection is a bad idea.”

“How very competent of you.”

“I caught sight of you from a rooftop and noticed you were being followed, figured if you ended up in over your head lending a hand would be the least I could do.”

“My hero,” Jerome drawls, Bruce purses his lips and averts his eyes. “Aw, no need to be embarrassed Brucie. You know what? I think our fateful, mutually beneficial meeting really deserves a toast or two. Let me take you out into the city for a bit; we’ll have some drinks, some laughs, and I promise I’ll bring you home to Alfred before you turn into a pumpkin.”

Bruce fights a smile but shakes his head.

“My twenty first birthday is still a couple of months away, no one’s going to serve me.”

“Oh Bruce, let me worry about that.” He stands up and holds out his hand. “You’ll find I get my way in this city quite easily.”

“That sounds vaguely ominous,” Bruce says, but he slips a hand into Jerome’s and lets him help pull him up. “But I suppose it would be fun to try something that wasn’t cheap beer or homemade moonshine.”

“Moonshine?”

Bruce shrugs his shoulders before answering, quite simply, “alcoholic clowns.”

Jerome winds an arm around Bruce’s shoulders and reels him in with a laugh.


	6. Saturday Night II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is way later than I wanted it to be, but it's finally up! (And Jerome and Bruce finally have a few _moments_ , at long last.)

As the circus fades into the horizon behind them Jerome offers to drive them into the city. “Unless you’re scared that I’m actually a serial killer,” he chortles, “then I suppose we could walk.”

Bruce casts an appraising look in his direction and answers, “I think I could take you if you tried anything.”

His brazen confidence makes Jerome laugh again. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve that might just surprise you, don’t count me out yet.”

“I did gather that you weren’t a typical rich boy, considering the way you handled yourself last night. Between the concealed knife and the non-fatal gunshot wounds,” the way Bruce’s voice changes ever so slightly to unknowingly highlight that—non-fatal—makes Jerome’s mind latch onto it greedily. Non-fatal, meaning Bruce’s reactions could have been very different if the gunshots _had_ been fatal, “you fight like you’ve seen more adversity than the average trust-fund baby. Still,” Bruce’s eyes flick back over in his direction; there’s something undeniably warm in his gaze and a smile is tugging at the corner of his mouth, “you haven’t seen everything in my arsenal either.”

It’s what he expected, but it’s still oh so gratifying to hear.

“Bruce, you tease,” he accuses as they turn onto the street where he’s parked, “it’s rude to tell without a show.”

“You started it,” Bruce states with a casual air. “You can dish it out, but you can’t take it?” 

“Perhaps we’ll have to make an exchange sometime. A secret for a secret.” He steps in front of Bruce, arms wide open. “A show for a show.”

Bruce hums, neither agreeing or disagreeing. But he’s already admitted to finding Jerome interesting and he’s really only seen the tip of the iceberg so far. He has a full evening of the pleasure of Jerome’s undivided attention ahead, and Jerome likes to think that he becomes more fascinating with exposure. Give him a few hours and they’ll be trading secrets like high school sweethearts trade kisses.

He chuckles to himself as he makes his way to the driver’s side of his car and unlocks the doors, slipping behind the steering wheel as Bruce settles in at a slower pace.

“Should I bother to ask what bar you’re taking me to, or are you going to leave it as a surprise?”

“I do love surprises.” Jerome winks at him. “But, to give you some idea of what lies ahead so that you don’t lose your nerve and end up tucking and rolling out of a moving vehicle I will tell you this: we are not just visiting a bar, we are visiting several notable Gotham establishments.” He pulls out of the parking space and, with an absolutely straight face, engages the car’s child-proof safety lock. “I’ve got a plan, you see. We start downtown and work our way back to the city’s edge on foot, one best-selling drink at a time. We have a few drinks, a few laughs, and then I walk you to your doorstep like the gentleman that I am before catching a cab home.”

Bruce, apparently unfazed by the stunt with the child-proof lock, reclines in his seat and takes in the interior of the car. “You’re going to leave this car downtown overnight?”

That was not what Jerome thought he would focus on. He should have guessed that Bruce wouldn’t play into his expectations, that’s what made him so fun.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got indoor private parking with my name on it.”

Literally.

“Well, now that I don’t have to worry about you lacking a certain amount of common sense I do find that I have one more question for you.”

“Which is?”

“Why do you have a gun?”

“Noticed that, did you?”

“Jerome.” Bruce’s tone leaves no room for wheedling out of the question. “Do occurrences such as last night happen to you often?”

Jerome shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “Grew up as a rich kid in Gotham. I’ve had my fair share of attempted kidnappings over the years, it comes with the territory.” He glances at Bruce’s face quickly to see his reaction. Pity is such a predictable, boring response to many instances of his childhood, and he’s become so sick of seeing it on peoples’ faces that it just makes him want to destroy something.

Bruce doesn’t stare at him with large, sad eyes, or reach out a sympathetic hand to him. Instead his gaze seems drawn inward, thoughtful. “Do you think something might happen tonight?”

Jerome smirks. “Shall I take out my crystal ball and tell you the future, or would you rather I keep my eyes on the road?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Why are you asking anyway? Concerned about the welfare of your newfound friend?” Or maybe worried that Jerome bringing along his own firearm might up the chances of a fatality if something were to happen. Jerome could lie and say he’d never cross that line, but he absolutely would if he had to and he wouldn’t even blink. If life gave you no alternative choices don’t go trying to find one last-minute, just do what was necessary.

Not that he’s going to bring up that particular philosophy with Bruce. He doesn’t expect it would go well.

Bruce gazes curiously at the old, gothic buildings that line the street, not really looking at Jerome as he answers, “When I was getting dressed in my after-work clothes I wasn’t exactly preparing for a second night in a row of intervening in an unfair fight. Judging by your plan not only will I likely be underdressed for the vast majority of the evening, but also wandering around Gotham on foot after dark.”

“If you’re worried because you’re not properly dressed for the evening; don’t be. I’m dressed well enough for the both of us.” Bruce snorts. “Also, you’ve got the kind of face and I’ve got the kind of money that makes what we’re wearing absolutely insignificant anyways.”

“Thanks,” Bruce says dryly, still looking out the window. “You’ve got a nice face as well.”

Jerome tries not to preen too obviously. His fingers tap restlessly against the wheel.

“However, if you’re worried because you don’t have any protection on you, you can borrow a few of _my_ throwing knives. I’ve got a case in the trunk.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but he can feel the way Bruce’s attention on him shifts into something more intense.

“Why Jerome,” Bruce’s voice is honey-sweet, Jerome could bask in the sound of it, “how incredibly thoughtful of you.”

“I try.” He makes a right turn, their destination drawing closer by the minute as they make their way towards the heart of downtown.

Bruce is silent for a few moments, then lets out a soft “huh,” as if he’d just solved a simple but amusing puzzle. Jerome’s eyes quickly flick over to follow his line of sight and yes, that is a Valeska Enterprises billboard that they’re passing by. 

“Not just a rich boy,” Bruce muses aloud, “King of the rich boys.”

“Don’t go assuming I have too much power, it’ll go straight to my head.”

“Very well.” Bruce’s lips curl in a smile. “Duke of the rich boys.”

Jerome snorts. “How many times have you been in Gotham without seeing any patent Valeska signage? I’d almost find it suspicious if I didn’t know what people who fake ignorance about my identity look like.”

“To be fair I’ve never gone into upper-class parts of Gotham before. The Narrows would be easier for me to navigate than the modern downtown business sector.” Bruce catches a glimpse of a tall building in the distance, one that has Jerome’s surname lit up on the side. “Although I do see your point. I imagine that most people knew exactly who you were while growing up.”

“They sure did, not always for the best reasons, but what can I say? I’m something of a household name around here.” He stops at a red light and allows his full attention to turn onto Bruce. “And the Narrows? Really? I can’t believe this city didn’t eat you up alive back when you were a carefree kid running after your new friend.”

“You seem to have survived the city into adulthood.”

“I grew up here, you didn’t. It’s different.” The light turns green and Jerome’s eyes reluctantly turn back to the road. “People new to Gotham have a _rough_ time in Gotham. Now that I have twenty-five years of exposure under my belt, plus my well-deserved title of Duke of the rich boys, I don’t have anything to fear for from this city. Well. Except for the occasional kidnapping or murder attempts.”

“Murder attempts?” Bruce’s voice is tight and his shoulders are tense. He worries too much, clearly.

“Yeah.” Jerome makes a turn, finally pulling into the parking garage. “That comes with the territory too. But hey, I’ve still got all my limbs attached, so don’t go worrying about me too much.”

“I’m finding it very difficult not to worry about you.” Bruce sounds so genuine that it makes Jerome’s fingers itch to reach out. “Especially since you appear to be a trouble-magnet.” 

“I can take care of myself; don’t go losing sleep over me.”

“I know, but sometimes,” Bruce pauses, hands folding in his lap, eyes downcast, “sometimes it’s nice to have people, friends, worry about you.”

Jerome hums in acknowledgment as he pulls into his parking space and disengages the child-proof lock. Bruce makes no move to get out of the car.

“You look contemplative. You’re not getting cold feet are you?”

“No.” Bruce undoes his seatbelt and turns to look at him fully. “Mostly I’m wondering why you’re being so friendly with someone who’s very recently robbed you, regardless of the sum, interesting or not, when I’m sure that people have been trying to take whatever they could from you your whole life.”

“You bring up a good point.” Jerome slips out of his seat and makes his way to the passenger side. He opens the door and braces a hand against the frame as he leans in.

He looks into Bruce’s eyes and feels a kind of kinship. Sees something displayed there that his own eyes reflect back at him. They’re two of a kind. Or maybe two sides of the same coin. Bruce holds his gaze, unflinching, and Jerome feels his lips stretch wide.

“Maybe it’s because I’m just a little bit crazy,” is what he says.

“You are a very strange man.”

“Said the pot to the kettle.”

Bruce purses his lips briefly before his expression smooths back out. “You know what? I suppose that’s fair.”

“Of course it is!” Jerome steps aside. “Now let’s go before you start second guessing your decision to come with me.”

“If I didn’t second guess myself when I saw that you were carrying a gun I highly doubt that that’s something you’ll have to worry about.” Bruce gets up and shuts the door behind him. Jerome latches onto his words like they’re pieces to a puzzle that he desperately wants to solve. “Now then, I believe you promised me something from the trunk.”

Jerome holds a hand over his chest and takes a half bow. “Of course. Do you, perhaps, want a jacket so that you’re not just tucking knives into the back of your pants to hide them?”

“Well, if you’re offering…”

“I am.”

The leather jacket he has stuffed in the trunk doesn’t quite fit, a little too big in the shoulders, a little too long in the arms, but…

Bruce sure does look good in black.

-x-x-x-

Jerome first leads Bruce to a little Italian restaurant that undoubtedly has mafia connections, but the woman who runs the place makes a mean homemade Limoncello _and_ always gives him garlic bread on the house.

Bruce sniffs at the yellow liquid in his glass curiously. 

“Trust me, you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” Bruce says as he raises his glass towards him. Jerome had meant toasting to their meeting as a figure of speech, but Bruce’s straightforwardness is unsurprisingly charming. He raises his own glass across the table.

“To fateful, mutually beneficial encounters,” he says with a smirk.

“To making new friends,” Bruce counters.

“To new friends,” he echoes, and their glasses clink together. 

They drink, eat, and Jerome leaves a generous tip before they head off to their next destination. Bruce’s face scrunches up as he tries undiluted Ouzo for the first and likely last time, he takes one sip of the anise-flavored spirit and then tells Jerome “no more licorice,” between coughs. Jerome laughs and makes no promises. After, with the sun finally beginning to dip behind the horizon, he leads Bruce to a pub that makes the best Irish coffee Jerome has ever had in the city.

Then he takes Bruce to the kind of swanky place one might have expected him to start with and yes, Bruce does make a comment that he’s surprised that they’re letting him in wearing what he is. Jerome orders them the most over-the-top drink they have on their secret menu and Bruce stares at the glimmering gold-leaf floating around in his glass like it holds the secrets to the universe.

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me how much this cost, even if I asked you?”

“People who are being treated don’t worry about the bill.” Jerome bumps their shoulders together in a friendly manner. “Don’t wimp out on me now. I promise it doesn’t taste like licorice.” 

Bruce’s lips purse at the memory of the Ouzo. “Yeah, but what does gold taste like?”

“Opulence,” Jerome says with a cheeky smile, and Bruce lightly elbows him in the ribs.

“That’s not a flavor that I’m familiar with.”

“Good, tonight was also about you trying new things.”

As Bruce continues to stare at the drink in front of him Jerome knows, suddenly, that they’re being watched. He looks into the large mirror behind the bar, reflecting the close bottles of liquor and distant faces of customers, and flicks his eyes over the patrons that he can make out without turning around.

Towards the back of the room is a man with a high-quality camera in his hands. Just another pap looking for some photos of party-boy Jerome to round out the gossip section of the news. 

His attention turns back to Bruce, who still hasn’t touched his drink.

“Come on, Brucie.” Jerome lifts his glass and tips it slightly towards him. Bruce steels himself and picks up his own. They clink their glasses together again.

A dull flash captures the moment.

Jerome might actually be interested in seeing the pictures taken of him, for once.

He and Bruce drink together, and when they’re done Bruce has a fleck of gold-leaf on his bottom lip. Jerome, starting to get a little tipsy and even more bold than he is usually, brushes it away with his thumb.

Bruce pauses, there’s another camera flash, and Jerome could be imagining it but he thinks that maybe Bruce’s pupils have expanded a little.

Jerome feels warmer than the several drinks he’s had so far can account for. 

“Opulence tastes suspiciously like cinnamon,” Bruce’s eyes drift around his face, settling too low for him to be even attempting to look him in the eye. “You’ve got some gold on you as well.”

Jerome wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

When they’re halfway to their next destination Bruce leans in, closer than he’s ever been, and whispers in Jerome’s ear, “have you noticed that we seem to have gained a tail since leaving the last place?”

“Hyper-vigilance is such an attractive quality,” Jerome snickers. Bruce elbows him in the ribs harder than before. “Ow. Okay, yeah, you mean buddy back there on his phone? He’s got a camera on him, he might just be a pap.” He thinks about how close Bruce had just been, and how much one of the prowlers who take it upon themselves to document his life would have loved to get more successive shots of him getting cozy with another guy. “Who’s not the greatest at his job.”

“Do you often make the news when you go out for drinks?”

“Only on very special occasions.”

“Right.” Bruce leans in to whisper again. Jerome can feel his breath against his neck. “So it wouldn’t be a stretch for someone to realize that it’s not unusual for you to be followed around by someone wanting to snap photos of you losing your inhibitions and using that as a cover to get closer to you when your guard should be up?” 

By all accounts they must look quite intimate, and the man trailing behind them still hasn’t put away his phone so that he can capture the moment.

“Your point is woefully valid.”

“I think you’d better ask for virgin versions of whatever’s next on your list.”

Jerome throws an arm over Bruce’s shoulders and whispers back, “your wish is my command.” A real pap would be falling over themselves right about now to get a shot of him and Bruce like this to really sell the tagline ‘Gotham’s Billionaire Boy – Bi?!’. “In the meantime, act natural.”

“Is that what you’re doing right now,” Bruce sounds amused, “acting natural?”

“I’m a very clingy, physical person. You’ll get used to it.”

The sound of Bruce’s low laughter makes him cling a little bit harder.

At the next place he orders them fauxranginas, then a couple of fresh lime sodas. Over their drinks Bruce talks about tightrope walking and freeclimbing, and Jerome wonders what Bruce would be like if he widened his horizons to specifically include corrupt politicians, businessmen, and banks. He’d probably make a killing if he had someone able to give him the little bit of tech he’d need to get through a few iron-clad defenses. He bets it could be fun, a life of crime. He bets nobody would suspect him either, because really, what would his motivation be? It’s not like he didn’t have money to burn.

Bruce kicks him lightly under the table. “You’ve gone quiet. What’s going on?”

“I’m just mapping out our future life of crime together.”

Bruce spits out his drink, sputtering, and Jerome cackles as he pats his back until the coughs subside.

“Kidding, kidding! I’m too set in my ways for a change of career, and Jeremiah would suffer in my absence, having to actually talk to people outside of the board members by himself.” He folds his hands together, a picture of innocence. “Plus, every time I do my job well I like to think that my mother is screaming profanities in the afterlife. If I became a career criminal she’d probably feel validated in the vast differences between her treatment of me versus her treatment of Jeremiah when we were kids. I’d rather keep her ghost livid.”

“Am I supposed to take that as reassurance?”

“Sure. Nothing motivates me like spite.”

Bruce huffs out a laugh and downs half his drink.

“The guy who followed us here keeps making calls. Rounding up re-enforcements?”

“Probably. If they try and fail again, well, whoever’s trying to get their hands on me isn’t going to be happy.”

Bruce trails a finger around the rim of his near-empty glass. His expression has gone a little hazy, eyes half open, as if what they’d been ordering had actually had alcohol in them and it was just starting to hit him. “Should we call the police?” His tone, unlike the part he’s starting to play, is all business. “With the attack on you yesterday I’m sure they’d take any suspicious behavior around you seriously.”

Jerome snorts. “Gotham police? One of ‘em might even be in on it. This city is corrupt down to the roots, even cops you can trust might end up sharing with someone you can’t.”

“So your plan is to… What, exactly? Do everything on your own, find out who’s behind this, and then go after them yourself?” Bruce’s voice is disbelieving, and he looks Jerome up and down in a way not unlike his curly haired friend had earlier today. His expression gives absolutely nothing away even as Jerome leans his chin onto an upraised hand and says,

“I wasn’t planning on doing _everything_ on my own.”

“That is not an answer that puts me at ease.” Bruce sighs and brings a hand up to rub at his temples, as if he’s suddenly been overcome by a headache. “So, just to be clear, what do you think will happen if we call the authorities right now?”

“Someone in on the plot might hear about it, then call one of the goons, and then no confrontation happens tonight. Everyone involved goes into hiding and then _I_ have to live for an undetermined amount of time feeling like I’ve always got to be armed and looking over my shoulder. Not exactly ideal.”

“Okay.” Bruce settles his hands across the table top, gaze unfocussed on the empty glasses before him. “What I’m hearing is you’d rather be right on the cusp of whatever’s happening tonight before you call, so that no one has time to alert the ‘goons’ to tell them not to go forward with whatever they’re planning.” He glances at Jerome out of the corner of his eye. “That way when the police do arrive on scene they’ll all be there, hopefully either unconscious or in a talkative mood, and you can rest easy knowing that one of them will probably give the police, _or you_ , a name.”

Jerome folds his hands underneath his chin, delighted that Bruce has caught on so quickly. “Were you a detective in a past life or something?”

“Don’t flatter me too much,” Bruce dryly states as he leans against the table and slumps over, pillowing his head on his arms, “I don’t want you getting too shocked when I tell you that I still think that it’s not a very smart idea. You’re essentially using yourself as bait. What if the police don’t get where we are fast enough?”

Where we are. Even with Jerome willing to sprint face-first into danger to get to the root of this, and even if Bruce thinks the plan is crazy, he isn’t backing out.

“You could leave now, if you wanted to,” he tells him, even though that’s the very last thing he wants. 

“Please,” Bruce scoffs, “as if I’m letting you walk into a trap alone. Friends, remember? No take-backs.” Bruce smirks at him with a smug air. “You’re stuck with me looking out for you, especially now. You need someone to trust to have your back? Then trust me.”

Jerome’s actually kind of touched. Also, his heart is beating like a drum in his chest.

His licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “Okay,” he says, voice on the raspy side. He quickly downs the rest of his lime soda and glances up at the clock behind the bar for something to do. More than five hours have flown by since he met Bruce at the dunk tank.

“So much for returning you home before you turn into a pumpkin.” His voice is level, normal, great. “Think Alfred’ll be pissed?”

“Maybe.” Bruce rises partway out of his slouch and downs the last of his own lime soda, for all intents and purposes looking as though the drinks have finally gotten to him. “I got quite the lecture earlier today after you returned my knives to me.”

Earlier today. It feels like Jerome’s known Bruce for so much longer than he has.

“I’ll try not to do anything that will get you lectured at again.”

“You’d better.” Bruce’s eyes glint with mirth as he turns, his balance wavering slightly, making him appear unsteady. “Or I’ll make you stay with me so that you can hear it too.”

For a threat it falls surprisingly short of making Jerome wary. He hasn’t been lectured since his mother was alive and kicking, and he likes to think that no other person in his life, except maybe Jeremiah, would dare to even attempt it. He doesn’t think it would agitate him quite so much if Bruce was there with him.

“If you get hurt I’ll take the lecture, but I don’t plan on letting anything happen to either of us. You and me? Together we’re like gunpowder and a spark; dynamite.” His hands mimic an explosion. “We could carve our mark into the earth, shake some foundations, light up the sky.”

He believes it one hundred percent, too. He might not have known Bruce for long, but he knows that together they could be great. He can sense it.

“That was unexpectedly sweet.” Bruce smiles, wider than he has for as long as Jerome has known him, and slouches most of his weight on the table top again. “I thought you were just going to say we’d destroy everything in our path.”

Jerome’s chest feels fluttery all over again. 

That too, he thinks to himself as he waves their server down for two more sodas.

Nothing could stand in their way.


	7. Sunday Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are falling into place (and I am screaming, haha).

They slip out of the last bar just after midnight, the lights of the downtown area where they’d started glimmering in the distance. It might take thirty minutes to make it to the edge of the fairgrounds from where they are now, but it’s likely going to be longer because camera-man isn’t alone when he starts following them down the street, far enough away that if they weren’t already on to him they’d think nothing of it, and the number of people milling around suspiciously multiplies with each passing city block.

Bruce pretends to stumble and reaches for Jerome’s hand to steady himself, then he gives his fingers a light squeeze before he leans in, so close that his lips graze against Jerome’s ear. “I’ve got a plan, just go with it okay?”

“Sure thing, but what-” Jerome finds himself pushed up against a wall, Bruce’s head nuzzling into his neck, and he feels the cool glass of a phone screen against his cheek, separating his face from the palm of Bruce’s hand, which his cupping the side of his face around the phone in an effort to hide it. “What?”

“Spotted a man around a corner ahead, face concealed, they’ll probably try to herd us in there. Lower your voice,” Bruce commands just as the 911 dispatcher picks up to ask what’s his emergency.

Jerome whispers his name, situation, and location while Bruce gets better acquainted with his neck. Even from a few feet away it probably looks like he’s trying to leave one hell of a hickey. Jerome tilts his head as if to give him more room, and his free hand tangles itself in Bruce’s dark hair.

It’s softer than it looks.

“I can’t stay on the line,” he finishes, “they can’t see me making a call.” He lets the dispatcher draw her own conclusions about that. She promises that help is on the way, and then Bruce’s hand-and-phone trails down Jerome’s neck, down his chest, in the small space between them concealed by their jackets so that Bruce can end the call and slip the phone back into his pocket with none the wiser.

He draws back, his expression soft and dreamy and very believably tipsy. One of Jerome’s hands is still in his hair, and he very reluctantly lets his fingers untangle from the locks and fall to his side. 

“Nice work,” Bruce whispers, and then he leans in and Jerome has a flash of _holy shit he’s gonna-_

He presses a kiss to Jerome’s nose. His nose, of all things, and laughs loudly as he steps back, falsely unsteady, one hand still holding Jerome’s. It’s not fair. Jerome would like to lodge a complaint. Bruce is just too… Too everything. 

Bruce leans his weight back on his heels and pulls Jerome from the wall, and they continue on their way as if the stalkers behind them hadn’t just gotten an unexpected viewing of PDA.

“You ready?”

“Yeah,” Jerome manages, heart in his throat, “these clowns have no idea who they’re up against.”

Bruce squeezes his fingers one last time before his hand slips away.

They turn around the corner ahead and Bruce ducks the swing of a baseball bat aimed at him, then drops to the ground and sweeps a leg out to trip their first unfortunate attacker. The men who’d been following at a closing distance begin to rush forward while Bruce springs back to his feet and stomps a foot onto the downed man’s knee before his attention turns elsewhere.

It’s a blur of concealed faces and movement. Clearly the spectacular failure of Friday night has led whoever’s behind this into drafting more manpower in an effort to use sheer numbers to overcome him. Jerome lands a few hits with his fists before taking out his knife. He’ll bring out the gun if he needs it but for now it’s better to keep it concealed. Too many things could go wrong in this crowded, narrow side-street, with Bruce slipping through foes like a fish through water. Friendly fire in this situation is not something Jerome would be able to get over.

There must be at least twice as many people this time around. Jerome stabs his knife through the hand of a man who’d attempted to grab onto the lapels of his jacket and wonders if the getaway car from the other night is nearby, lying in wait for one of these goons to get a lucky shot.

He really hopes that the cops who are coming aren’t completely crooked or useless. 

He blocks a punch with his forearm and then lashes out with his knife, cutting into and then wrenching out of the abdomen of his attacker. The man falls to his knees and Jerome manages to land a kick to his chest before he’s hit from behind. He loses his balance and stumbles forward, into the reach of a man who grabs onto his wrist and twists until the knife falls from his fingers. Jerome lurches forward and knees him in the groin, then slams his forehead into the guy’s face hard enough to feel the crunch of a nose breaking.

They were going to wish that they hadn’t made him drop his knife.

He draws his gun and whirls around. Between the two of them in the few minutes that have passed they’ve taken out half the group, but as far as he knows none of them are actually dead; so are they really down for the count?

This would be so much easier if he shot to kill, he likely wouldn’t even be reprimanded by the authorities, but he finds himself aiming at legs and arms instead of heads and chests.

At least until someone gets the drop on Bruce and manages to pin him, using Bruce as a shield as he holds a gun to his temple.

It’s the man with the camera, the one who’d been ratting out his location. Bruce’s little falsified PDA session evidentially made them assume that Jerome might be easier to handle if they focused their attention on disarming Bruce first. A. Huge. Mistake. The man has a deep gash on his cheek, the blood dripping down his face and onto his collar. 

Jerome wonders if Bruce still has another knife concealed on him as he aims his gun at the fucker’s head.

“Let him go.”

There’s a click. Another of the last three foes standing draws out his own gun and points it in Jerome’s direction.

“Put your weapon down and come with us,” the voice is entirely too familiar. The man who’d had a gun in the alley. Jerome shouldn’t have shown any mercy. “And then we can let your friend go.”

“Don’t listen to them Jerome,” Bruce grits out before the man’s grip on him tightens. 

“What was it I told you the other night?” Jerome doesn’t take his eyes off of Bruce’s struggling form. “That if you didn’t stay put I would shoot you somewhere more painful? You should have listened to me, I don’t give out second chances.”

“You’re not in a position to make threats,” says the man holding Bruce as the third of their group draws closer, blood dripping from his recently broken nose. He doesn’t have a gun but the cloth sack and zip ties in his hands are just as bad. “All you need to do is come with us and then,” he lifts the hand holding the gun, aiming it skywards in a show of false pacifism, “no one else has to get hurt.”

There’s a whistling in the air. A crack.

And then the gun is pulled loose by—a whip?

Jerome doesn’t pause to question the hows or the whys, he aims at the man who’s close enough to get that sack over his head and shoots while Bruce shifts his weight and somehow throws the man who’d been holding him at gunpoint over his shoulder. The man from the alley turns to aim his gun at Bruce—unforgivable—but the black tail of the whip winds around his neck and he’s yanked back into the shadows, the bullet discharging into ancient brick several feet above Bruce’s head.

Camera-man valiantly tries to stand, but Jerome stops him in his tracks by pressing his gun to the soft underside of his jaw.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” his voice lowers to a hiss, “personally I’m hoping you choose the hard way, because I would love an excuse to damage you beyond repair.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Bruce moving closer. “Who sent you after me?”

The man stays silent.

“Not that there isn’t another half a dozen guys I could get the answer off of, but I’m giving you a chance to prove that your tongue is valuable enough to stay in your mouth.”

He sighs in mock-disappointment when there’s still no answer, he turns to glance at Bruce and finds him in the motion of letting loose a knife. It sails behind him and embeds itself into something soft that screams.

Jerome turns to watch one of the men who really should have stayed down fall to his face, hopefully for the last time tonight.

“Thanks Bruce.”

“My pleasure.”

Someone snorts.

“You guys need to sort out your priorities.”

The tail of the whip, folded over thrice, is hooked around the man’s throat like a garrote wire. He sputters and bows his back, hands scrambling to slip between his throat and what’s obstructing his breathing. Jerome can make out the curly hair of the woman who’d helped them, and it’s not difficult to place where he’d seen it before.

“You know,” Selina starts with a deceptively level voice, considering how vengeful her actions are coming off as, “normally I’d give zero fucks about some rich asshole getting ganged up on, but my willingness to look the other way disappeared after catching sight of you holding a gun to my friend’s head, so you’re going to answer to me.” Her hold tightens and she snarls, “I don’t play nice or make idle threats.”

Jerome’s threats were absolutely not idle. But the strangulation does seem to work better at making the guy want to talk. He gasps and chokes out a few syllables before Selina sees fit to loosen the cord around his neck.

“Galavan,” he rasps, “Theodore Galavan wanted us to kidnap you so that he could stage a rescue.”

“Thank you,” Selina sneers, and then she slams her fist against his temple hard enough that he folds to the ground, unconscious. 

Galavan? 

The man who’s name he had dragged through the metaphorical mud just a few days ago. He and his sister had been hanging around lately, obvious enough that Jerome hadn’t needed Jeremiah’s level of paranoia to figure out something was going on. Jerome did what he did best, laid on the charm, acted like he wasn’t as observant as he was, got close enough to figure a few things out and alerted some people who always loved sniffing out a story.

For someone who was very publicly on record saying that his humble family roots lay elsewhere, it sure was interesting to find out that the history behind the Galavan family—or rather, as one of Gotham’s top historians had discovered, the Dumas family—involved a whole lot of history to be shameful about. Actions against Jerome’s own ancestors, no less.

He’d thought that giving Gotham a bit of a show would make them back off to whatever pit they’d crawled up from, apparently not the case.

“He wanted to stage a rescue?” He must have needed Jerome’s goodwill for something. Or was trying to sway the publics’ opinion of him back into something favorable; giving an illusion that family feuds were being put to rest while something even more sinister brewed. “Trying to play pretend at being a hero, ha.” His eyes flick over to Bruce once more, just to assure himself that he’s alright. “I’m sure whatever the reason for that is absolutely riveting. I wonder how he’s going to feel about his plans when the GCPD show up on his doorstep.” He can hear sirens in the distance; the cavalry is finally on its way. He catches Selina’s eye. “Thanks for the assist.”

She crosses her arms and scowls at him. “I didn’t do it to help you.”

“I know; thanks all the same.”

That makes Selina pause, and this time when she looks him up and down her gaze isn’t utterly bored, but it does have a knowing edge that makes the hair on the back of Jerome’s neck stand up. She sashays over to Bruce, who looks somewhat bewildered by her approach, and gives him a tight hug, whispering something in his ear while continuing to stare at Jerome, a smirk playing at the edges of her mouth.

Jerome might not have cared much about her obvious ploy if Bruce had little to no reaction to her whispering, but the sight of Bruce’s fiercely reddening cheeks makes him near-desperate to know what it is that she’s told him. 

“See you around, Bruce,” she says loud enough for Jerome to hear before she springs up to grab onto the edge of a fire escape and lift herself onto it, disappearing into the shadows just as several police cars come to a screeching halt outside the mouth of the narrow street they were on.

x-x-x 

It’s almost two in the morning by the time they actually make it back to the fairgrounds, and if any police officer or prosecutor or judge fucks up enough that Theo Galavan stays a free man after all of this he’s probably just going to have to (metaphorically, maybe) raze the corrupt institutions to the ground and build them back up himself. He and Bruce had given factual statements, or at least factual up until Jerome alluded to the strange vigilante in black—or had there been more than one?—who had assisted them before disappearing into the night. The grateful look Bruce sent his way when Jerome said he wouldn’t be able to ID their savior in the shadows really made the little white lie worthwhile.

It’s his word against the one goon who’d been alert enough to hear Selina refer to herself as Bruce’s friend, and he’d never had the chance to turn around and get a look at her anyways. Besides he’s willing to bet cold hard cash that the GCPD will happily take him at his word so that they have less work to do. Somehow the knowledge that he could work the crooked system to his advantage was not as heartening as it could be.

Probably because he suspected that Galavan could and would also attempt to work the system to his advantage. And the idea that he might succeed is… Infuriating.

When all was said and done a Detective Bullock offered them a ride wherever they needed and Jerome took him up on the offer, asking him to take them to the circus.

Bruce had sent a curious look his way as they both slipped inside the back of the police car, perhaps wondering why Jerome wasn’t set on heading straight home after the night they’d had.

“I said I’d walk you back to your door,” he’d said before Bruce had the chance to ask any questions. “I’m a man of my word.”

The drive had only been a handful of minutes and then they were finally back where they’d started. In the complete darkness the circus sits like an eerie shadow against the backdrop of the empty field. Very horror-movie-esque. It’s kind of charming in its own way, like the streets of Gotham after dark. Spires and gargoyles and pointed arches drenched in darkness.

“Thanks for the lift. I’ll take a cab home from here,” Jerome tell the Detective as he climbs out of the car. He catches Bruce’s eye and smirks. “Jeremiah would probably be able to sense me arriving home in the back of a police car, and I’d rather avoid that.”

Here they were again, walking to the trailers beyond the tent, going past the shooting gallery, at the start of everything.

Their origin point, as it were.

Jerome walks Bruce right to his door, gentleman that he is, and before he can think to do anything, maybe press his lips to Bruce’s nose in a mirror of Bruce’s earlier actions, or better yet; kiss him somewhere else, Bruce turns to him and says,

“Wait here, I’ll be right back.” And he slips into his trailer, quiet as a mouse. 

Jerome pulls out his phone as he waits, calls a cab to pick him up, and offers an extra incentive if the driver is willing to drive over the open field right to the entrance of the circus, because if he has to walk much more after the night he’s had, running on as little sleep as he is, he thinks he’ll probably end up tripping on the uneven grass and wiping out. 

The long weekend has all the taxies in the city busy, and even with the extra cash he’s willing to drop to slide to the top of their priority list he’s still got a minimum thirty-minute wait ahead of him. But maybe that’s not all too bad, because Bruce slips back out of the trailer with an unmarked glass bottle, one quarter full of a clear liquid that Jerome is willing to bet is incredibly alcoholic.

“I’ve got a cab coming right up to the circus entrance in about half an hour.” He slips his phone back into his pocket. “Does that happen to be the illustrious moonshine?”

Bruce nods. “Alfred confiscates it when they get too rowdy. Sometimes they end up forgetting all about it.” He starts walking back the way they came, and Jerome follows beside him. “I figured since you’ve treated me to so many drinks tonight I’d let you try a bit of homebrew.”

“How thoughtful.”

Bruce lets out a soft laugh. “You let me know if you still think I’m thoughtful once this has actually hit you. Your opinion might change.”

“Unlikely.”

Bruce glances up at him, expression contemplative, and Jerome really wishes that he knew whatever Selina whispered to him before disappearing.

They reach the entrance of the circus and Bruce settles down on the grass, patting the ground beside him just like he had hours ago. Jerome sits next to him, closer this time around, and Bruce uncorks the bottle.

“Hope you don’t mind that I don’t have any shot glasses.” He lifts the bottle slightly in another toast. “I promise I’m not sick.” He brings the bottle to his lips and takes a short pull, face scrunching up slightly as he swallows. “Fuck,” Jerome is not too proud to admit that hearing Bruce curse is delightful, “it really is just like I remember it. Here.” He passes the bottle over, their fingers brushing as Jerome takes hold of it. 

Jerome brings it up to his mouth, lining it in a way to have his lips rest where Bruce’s had, gaze fixed on Bruce as he tilts the glass up and takes two swallows. It burns all the way down.

The bottle drops from his lips and he huffs out a wheezy breath before rasping, “are you sure this isn’t just rubbing alcohol?”

“Ninety-nine percent sure.”

“You may want to re-evaluate that percentage. This tastes like it could peel paint.” And, maybe because he’s just full of bad decisions, he brings the bottle back to his mouth and takes another long pull. Bruce grabs it from his hand just as he finishes, their fingers brushing again. 

“You need to learn to pace yourself,” Bruce tells him as he re-corks the bottle. “We did not survive this night together just for you to get alcohol poisoning.” 

Together. Together. Together.

They’re so close. Jerome could just reach out and grab him, wind both arms around his shoulders, kiss him.

He feels… Really warm. Too warm for it to just be because he’s having flashes of what it would be like to kiss Bruce. What it would be like to press Bruce up against a wall and mark up his neck the way Bruce had pretended to do to him earlier.

“Oh,” he says with a sigh. The warmth is spreading from his core to his limbs, slowly engulfing him like the world’s coziest, heaviest blanket. “Wow.”

“Yeah, that’s going to hit you harder than you thought it would. Here,” Bruce pats his leg and Jerome stares at him, wondering what he’s getting at. “Lay down. You’ve had a rough few days.” Bruce lays a hand on his shoulder and guides him down. Jerome would make a crack about Bruce wanting his head in his lap, but that thought brings a whole slew of other images to mind, too many for him to focus on forming words. “Relax.”

Easy for him to say, he didn’t have his head pillowed on the thigh of the guy who’s everything he ever wanted. 

Just when the situation could hardly get any better, bar Bruce leaning down to kiss him and then maybe making out with him in the grass, Bruce’s fingers start idly playing with his hair. It’s nice. Strangely domestic. This could happen every night and Jerome thinks he’d be pretty content.

He shifts to lay on his back instead of his side, and Bruce’s short nails scratch at the border of his hairline and forehead. Jerome’s eyes fall closed and he finds himself wondering if this is what a domestic cat’s life is like; naps and head scratches whenever needed. He basks in the attention for several minutes before the excited buzzing in his mind settles enough that he feels like he can speak.

“Have I told you that you look really good in my jacket?” His eyes flicker open to stare at the underside of Bruce’s jaw. “Because you look really good in my jacket.”

Bruce looks down, a bemused expression on his face. “Thank you, Jerome.”

“You should wear my clothes more often.” 

Bruce’s eyebrows draw upwards, and it looks like he’s fighting back a smile. “I’ll take your thoughts into consideration.”

“Good. You can keep it, by the way.” He manages to lift one heavy hand to grab onto the leather. “It suits you.”

Bruce lays a cool hand over his warm one. “How about instead of telling me that I can take and keep your clothes while you’re under the influence of moonshine we regroup tomorrow, well, later today, and see how you feel about it then?” 

“Sure.” As if he would say no to seeing Bruce again. His heavy hand slips down from its spot under Bruce’s, much to his own consternation. “Did you have fun tonight?”

The hand still in his hair pauses briefly, but Bruce starts back up before Jerome can make a noise of protest.

“You certainly gave me a night I won’t forget any time soon. I could do without the stalking or the kidnapping attempt, but otherwise yes, I did have fun.”

“We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

Bruce’s hand falls away and his gaze turns upwards.

“Yeah,” there’s something soft, hesitant, to his voice, “maybe someday.”

Because the circus is only in Gotham for the long weekend. Come Monday it, and Bruce, will be going away. It’s not fair, it’s not _right_. There’s a connection between them, Jerome can see it, can feel it, wants to deepen it.

Jerome has a fleeting idea about buying the circus, he’s bought weirder things on a whim before, but he finds all of his thought processes coming to a halt when he feels Bruce’s hand cup the side of his face.

“Hey, it’s not the end of the world.”

“It feels like it,” he grumbles, and he moves to lay a hand over Bruce’s. “I just met you, you can’t leave so soon. I need to… Take you out to dinner or something.”

Bruce’s smile is a small but breathtaking thing. Jerome’s other hand reaches up so that his thumb can trace the upward curve of his lip. Bruce’s eyes flutter, half-shut, and if Jerome actually thought he would be able to move from his lying position without assistance right now he’d be lunging up to bring their lips together.

“There are these handy things called cellphones,” Bruce murmurs, his smile spreading a little wider, “we’ll exchange numbers, okay?”

“I’ll call you every day,” Jerome tells him bluntly, “even about stupid things.”

“Then I guess we’ll talk to each other every day.”

Jerome takes a few moments to wonder what Bruce’s phone plan is like; how many minutes he has a month, whether or not he has data, what the quality of his camera is like. Would it be bad form to buy Bruce a new phone and have the monthly expenses billed to him?

“I think I see your cab coming. Let’s get you off of the ground.”

Between their combined efforts Jerome is somehow able to make it to a standing position, and he finds himself leaning heavily on Bruce as the cab comes closer for more reasons than just wanting to be close.

“Hey,” he says as Bruce opens the door for him and helps him inside, “what did Selina say to you? I know it was about me. She was smirking at me the entire time.”

“Ask me when you’re sober,” Bruce tells him as he reaches into the cab to grab Jerome’s seatbelt, “and I’ll tell you, okay?”

“Fine,” Jerome closes his eyes, “but only because you’re too cute to say no to.”

The buckle clicks into place, and Jerome’s eyes flicker half open because he can feel Bruce continuing to hover over him. “Oh. I said that out loud, huh?” With the light inside the cab it’s easy to see the redness on Bruce’s cheeks. Jerome hopes it’s from his words and not from the tiny bit of moonshine Bruce had taken. He possibly should have followed his example instead of drinking three times more than him. He’s usually way smoother than this. He’s usually less invested in the outcome than this. “Can’t fault a guy for telling the truth, right?”

“I’ll see you later, Jerome.” Bruce fixes the collar of his jacket, his fingers brushing against Jerome’s neck and making him shudder before he steps out of reach. “Try and remember to drink lots of water when you get home.”

He groans at the idea of doing anything before finally falling into bed, Bruce shushes him and casts a quick glance at the cab-driver, who is very wisely keeping his eyes glued forward.

“Remember for me? Please?”

“Okay,” he promises, and Bruce smiles at him before he gently shuts the door.

The drive home feels instantaneous, so Jerome must have drifted off the second Bruce wasn’t around to keep him company. He manages to open up his wallet and toss a few bills at the cab driver before stumbling inside, making his way to the kitchen to drink a full glass of water because he’d _promised_ , and if he was going to keep a promise to anyone…

Not that Bruce was just anyone. He was… He was…

Jerome’s thoughts race, ideas filtering in and out of his mind lasting only seconds at a time and leaving him with only brief impressions. Each one is centered around Bruce. Of course they are. He drains another glass of water and his heart doesn’t settle in his chest, just continues to beat firm and a touch too-fast. He’s never felt like this about someone before. It’s happening so quick, but it’s good. Marvelous. Spectacular. Before he even fully realizes it he’s making his way up the stairs. He’s tired and disoriented and tipsy, and he thinks he’s…

He thinks he’s…

He makes it to Jeremiah’s room and knocks on the door, loud enough that if anyone else were in the house they’d probably be woken up by it too. He knocks and knocks until the door abruptly swings open, Jeremiah frowning at him in irritation as he starts unfolding his glasses to slip them on his face.

“Jerome,” he hisses, “do you have any idea what time it is? What is wrong with you?”

There are many things wrong with him, but this new situation, too important to be kept secret, is something that is _right_ with him. Jerome reaches out both hands to lay them on Jeremiah’s shoulders. He feels warm, warm, warm, and he knows it’s not just because of the poison in his blood.

“Jeremiah, I think I’m in love.”


	8. Sunday Afternoon

When he wakes up it’s not to a pounding headache, or even an overwhelming sense of nausea, just a curious feeling in his chest that tells him he has a reason to get up today. Why was that again? Because…

His memories aren’t foggy, per se, but they’re overlaid with a rosy hue. Like the colour of Bruce’s cheeks after Jerome had told him he was cute.

‘Ask me when you’re sober,’ the words echo in his mind, ‘and I’ll tell you, okay?’

Jerome’s eyes open, squinting against the light, and it takes him more than a few seconds to realize that he’s not alone in his room. Jeremiah is sitting off to the side, a book in his lap and a steaming mug in his hand.

“What the fuck is this?” Jerome springs into a sitting position, regretting it almost instantly because a wave of dizziness hits him with the force of an anvil and triggers the headache and nausea that he thought he’d managed to avoid. “A bedside vigil? Did I almost die?” His head falls into his hands as he takes deep breaths through his mouth, trying to keep his body from revolting against him.

Jeremiah sighs, lacking any sympathy, and shuts his book. “That’s debatable. You were, however, almost kidnapped last night, which you failed to mention when you woke me up at three in the morning.”

Jerome glares at Jeremiah through his fingers.

“Why would I wake—oh.” Oh shit. He’d been all warm and fluttery, and it seemed like a good idea to share his happy news with the one constant of his life, even though that constant could be an annoying brat at times. He can’t bring himself to regret saying the words. Saying them to Jeremiah, however, was not the smartest thing he’d ever done.

“Yes, ‘oh’ indeed.” Jeremiah brings the mug to his mouth, but that doesn’t do much to conceal the smug sort of smile pulling at his lips. “Wrangling you to your room while all you could go on about was Bruce this and Bruce that was an… Experience. I must say, I’m surprised that you’re capable of that level of affection. How strangely sweet of you.”

“Fuck off.” Jerome takes one final deep breath before he kicks his blankets off, still in his pants and shirt from yesterday. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sticking around waiting for me to wake up just so that you can tease me. That’s not like you.” 

“No, it’s not,” Jeremiah says agreeably, “I’m sticking around because Theo Galavan is in GCPD custody, and I figured that would be something you’d like to know for certain, from a trustworthy source, as soon as you woke up.” Jeremiah rises from the chair, tucking his book under his arm. “I’m not entirely sure what he and his sister were up to, though I’m sure we’ll find out eventually, but in any case.” A cold shadow passes over his face, eyes glinting in a way that promises retribution. “He will not get away with this poorly concocted scheme. If any police officer, or prosecutor, or judge fumbles with this case, knowingly or otherwise, in such a way that he ends up a free man…” His lips purse to keep the words in, but his whole presence just screams _devastation_ to anyone who might be involved with Galavan walking.

They really did still think the same, sometimes.

“Maybe it’s time someone does something about all the corruption in Gotham, huh? Get rid of the old rot, lay some new foundations…” Jerome props his face on his upturned palm and smirks. “Now that I’m personally invested it seems like a good time to start caring a little more.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Jeremiah’s expression smooths back out, and there’s a look in his eyes that says Jerome’s words have taken root. 

Even while at odds with each other they were a force to be reckoned with. If the pair of them actually decided to work together on this? The old, deteriorating Gotham didn’t stand a chance. They’d clean the slate and start fresh.

They were Valeska Enterprises, after all. They were already what kept the city running, they may as well be the ones to improve it.

“One more thing before I go,” Jeremiah says as he’s got a hand on Jerome’s door. He looks over his shoulder, smiling, and Jerome braces himself for a final teasing comment.

“I’m happy for you.”

The door shuts on Jerome’s stunned face. He feels his cheeks heat up in embarrassment, the genuine statement somehow more disconcerting than a bit of razzing would have been.

“Jeremiah you fucking dork, what the fuck.” He takes a moment to regain his equilibrium before he slips out of bed, a wrinkled mess in yesterday’s clothes. First order of business: shower. Then dress, then eat, and then…

Go to Bruce. Obviously.

x-x-x

It’s a typical, gloomy Gotham afternoon when he strolls back onto the fairgrounds for the third day in a row. The crowd is mostly comprised of parents and children with very few teenagers or young adults in sight, so Jerome already sticks out when he passes through the main entrance dressed in a pale-yellow button up with a dark tweed waistcoat and pants. He spots a couple of the workers giving him very conspicuous looks, and wonders if the rumor mill has gone to work and the entire circus now knows that he’s ‘sweet on’ Bruce. 

Well, that could work out in his favor. Maybe they’ll leave them alone when they see him camped beside where ever Bruce may be today with no plans on moving an inch. It’s almost like staking a claim; if someone else had a crush on Bruce too bad, they’d had their chance and didn’t take it so now it was Jerome’s time to shine.

He spots a familiar head of dark hair manning the shooting gallery and his pace increases to a brisk walk. When he notices that Bruce is wearing the jacket, _his jacket_ , from yesterday a wolfish satisfaction spreads through him.

Before Bruce can even turn around and spot him Jerome finds his path abruptly blocked.

By Alfred. Who does not look particularly happy to see him. Shit. 

“Mister Valeska,” he greets, as cordial as can be, “if I might have a word?”

The term ‘shovel talk’ immediately springs into his mind, because that is what he is almost 100% sure is about to happen to him. 

He’d really rather deny Alfred the chance to say whatever it is he’s thinking about, but this is the man who pretty much raised Bruce, and Bruce obviously still has a lot of respect for him, so it’s probably better for him to bite the bullet now and leave a half-decent impression rather than to brush Alfred off. The fact that he’s willing to go through something he doesn’t actually want shows some growth on his part, he thinks. He would have never been agreeable to this sort of ploy before Bruce had slipped through all of his defenses to get to the heart of him. 

“Sure, I can spare a few minutes,” he says agreeably, and if Alfred is shocked that he’s willing to come without a fuss he doesn’t let himself look it.

“Good man,” he says, one hand coming to rest between Jerome’s shoulder blades and guiding him further away from Bruce, as well as the crowd. Jerome casts a glance over his shoulder, letting one last sight of Bruce fortify him before he’s dragged into conversation.

This’ll be a piece of cake. He hopes. He’s only ever really had casual partners or one-night stands where both parties knew nothing more would be developing, so he’s never actually had a ‘break their heart and I’ll break your body’ confrontation before. 

“It has come to my attention that my boy spent a great deal of time with you last night.” Alfred starts off once they’re clear of any avid listeners. “That was your version of saying ‘thank you’, I’m assuming?”

“Something like that.” 

Alfred’s hand drops away and he crosses his arms, regarding Jerome with a lot less suspicion than he’d expected. Less dislike, too. Which means he probably doesn’t know about the climax of their night out, and no way is Jerome going out of his way to change that. He looks more thoughtful than anything, but with a touch of something knowing behind his eyes that brings back memories of the way Selina had looked at him.

Was he really that obvious? 

“I can’t say I approve of you plying Bruce with alcohol that he legally shouldn’t be able to order yet.”

“It won’t happen again.” Probably. He’s not going to say he’s sorry, because he feels like Alfred might be able to sense such an outright lie. “It maybe got a little out of hand,” he offers instead, which was entirely truthful, though not in the way Alfred would be expecting. 

“Getting out of hand sums this all up quite nicely, I believe.” Alfred sighs and rolls his eyes skyward. “Yesterday morning you were trying to find out his name, and somehow the pair of you become thick as thieves by the time evening rolls around?” His sharp eyes settle back on Jerome. “I don’t know what to expect on your end, Mister Valeska, but Bruce doesn’t usually get so friendly with people this quickly.”

Jerome can’t hold back a grin. “He thinks I’m interesting.”

Alfred raises a single eyebrow at him, Jerome’s smile doesn’t falter. He sighs again.

“Right then. Bruce is old enough that he can competently decide who he wants to spend time with, and something about you seems to have put a smile on his face.” Alfred’s eyes soften for just a moment, and then his expression turns dead serious. “But he’s still the closest thing that I have ever had to a son. From the first time I held him in my arms I knew I’d do whatever it took to protect him, so, just so you and I reach an understanding…”

He lays a hand on Jerome’s shoulder and looks him straight in the eye, his stern expression going a long way to make Jerome feel more intimidated than he has in a long time. This man is dangerous, Jerome realizes with a sudden clarity. More dangerous than an average knife-thrower should be.

He braces himself.

“You hurt my boy and I will bite your face off. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” he replies. Alfred’s hand pats his shoulder, once, then drops away.

“Glad we could have this conversation,” he says as he steps aside, “now go on. I’m pretty sure he’s been expecting you.”

Jerome doesn’t run past him, but it’s a near thing.

And when Bruce catches sight of him and smiles, well, he’s at least starting to get used to the way his heart beats a little bit faster.

“Hello again,” Bruce greets once Jerome is standing before him, “how are you feeling?”

“Better than ever. You?”

“Very well, thank you.” Bruce’s eyes flit past him, and he smiles sweetly at a kid who’s slowly passing by, eyes glued to the self of prizes at the back of the booth.

“Hey, kid,” Jerome calls as he pulls out his wallet, “wanna play? I’ll cover you.”

If he was going to hang out here all day he may as well make Bruce’s job a little easier. He didn’t want him getting into trouble for chatting too much to draw in customers after all, or give Alfred a reason to circle back and decide to threaten him some more.

And, okay, it’s also because Bruce is like an actual ray of sunshine when he smiles, and Jerome wants to bask in the light for as long as he is able to. He’s a lovesick fool, there’s no other explanation, and he hopes that if he’s been so obvious that Selina and Alfred have seen right through him in a matter of minutes, that Bruce has been catching on to it too.

He loses the round intentionally, and watches with a fluttering heart as Bruce winks at him before letting the kid pick out his prize. After he hands it over he leans into Jerome’s space, whispering, “looks like you’re attracting some attention.”

Jerome glances over his shoulder to find another pair of kids glancing between him and the prize shelf. He turns back to look at Bruce, who seems pretty damn charmed by the situation, and of course he can’t let that look fall off of Bruce’s face.

“Fair’s fair, I guess.” He looks over his shoulder again. It’s not like he doesn’t have money to burn. “Well, you guys wanna play or what?”

He plays, and loses, and flirts between games. He monopolizes Bruce’s attention whenever he can, and Bruce spoils him with little smiles and soft laughter that only Jerome can hear.

He’s not sure how many games he’s played straight by the time there’s a lull, there’s probably a show going on in the tent drawing most of the crowd away, but he does know that he’s finally got an opportunity to talk to Bruce without the chance of any bystanders overhearing, and he’s not going to miss it.

“So,” he drawls, putting both of his hands on the counter and leaning partway across, “what did Selina whisper in your ear last night?”

Bruce mirrors him, their faces close enough that it would take less than a second for Jerome to close the distance between them.

“To paraphrase; she told me that you had a reputation as a playboy so the sex would likely be fantastic.” Bruce’s cheeks darken, but he doesn’t look away. “And then she promised me that she’d break your fingers if you ever hurt me.”

Jerome’s hands inch across the counter, until his fingers overlap with Bruce’s.

“Is that so?”

“That’s so,” Bruce looks down at their hands briefly, then glances at Jerome from underneath his eyelashes. “Last night there were a couple of times that I thought about kissing you for real,” he admits in a soft voice, and the whole world seems to fade away at the confession.

Something electric runs down Jerome’s spine. It leaves him feeling equal parts enamored and triumphant. 

“You could have,” Jerome tells him. He’d have welcomed it, returned it, wanted and given more, more, more. Greedy and generous all at once. “What stopped you?”

“We’d been drinking. I don’t like to start things when I’m not level-headed.” He threads his fingers through Jerome’s. “Plus, while I’ll admit there’s definitely some chemistry between us, I’m not personally interested in casual relationships.”

“Oh, Bruce,” Jerome brings one of Bruce’s hands up between them and presses a kiss to his knuckles. It’s not really his style, this sort of sentimental romanticism, too sugar-sweet for someone as vicious and calculating as himself. Nevertheless; this hand could throw a knife at an enemy just beyond Jerome’s shoulder, this hand could slip a wallet back into place with the target being none-the-wiser, this hand could cup the side of Jerome’s face gently as if he deserved soft, careful handling. “There’s nothing casual about what I want with you.”

Bruce’s flush, which had been fading, springs back full-force. Jerome commits the sight of it to memory.

“You might be leaving tomorrow,” and his mind still screams at the unfairness of it, rages against the idea of their parting, “but I’d regret it if I didn’t take the chance to tell you that I like you, a lot.” He lifts Bruce’s other hand up to his mouth, planting another brief kiss. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone like you, Bruce Wayne.” Dangerous and kind. Fascinating and straightforward. Hero and criminal. Willing to help Jerome and have his back without any strings attached. Someone who Jerome actually felt like he could trust to have his back. “We’re quite the pair, you and I.”

Bruce sways a little closer, their noses practically brushing. “Gunpowder and a spark, right?”

Jerome can feel Bruce’s exhalations against his mouth. He represses the urge to seal their lips together immediately; their first should be a bit more civilized than Jerome diving over the countertop so that he can clutch his hands into Bruce’s soft hair and memorize the feel of him.

“Exactly.” He’s surprised by how level his voice is, all things considered. “We haven’t known each other long, but I know that together we could be great.”

“I think you might be right about that.”

“No take backs,” Jerome murmurs, and Bruce chuckles.

“No take backs,” he agrees, tilting his head just so, his eyes briefly breaking contact with Jerome’s to gaze at something past him.

“Are we starting to get a few looks?”

“That’s what happens when you’re surrounded by gossipmongers,” Bruce informs him as he backs up just a little, his hands slipping out of Jerome’s. Jerome misses the contact already. “Paying to talk to me one day, not moving from my booth the next, you’re leaving quite the impression.”

“It’s a good thing yours is the only opinion I care about. So,” He props an elbow on the counter as rests his chin on his hand, grinning up at Bruce, “I’m guessing I left a good impression?”

Bruce reaches out, lightly tracing his thumb across Jerome’s upturned lips the way Jerome had done to him last night, and then cupping the side of his face again. Jerome can feel his cheeks go hot.

“You did.” Bruce casts a glance to either side of Jerome before he locks eyes with him again. “Since there aren’t any patrons around for me to call over, and considering that you’ve been keeping business steady, I think it’s about time that I took a short break.”

Jerome’s heart beats, beats, beats; like a hummingbird’s wings. 

“That sounds great. Where are we going?”

“We’ll see.” Bruce braces one hand on the counter and leaps over it, landing with a graceful flare that just makes Jerome like him even more. “There’s not much private space around here where we can be without a dozen eyes pinned on us, and Alfred will be in the trailer at this time of day, but I’ll think of something.”

“Are you going to take me to the Ferris Wheel?”

Bruce lets out a single, sharp laugh. “I think that would just draw more attention to us. The romanticism is a nice touch, though. Maybe next time.” His hand reaches out for Jerome’s, their fingers lacing together, and he gives a gentle tug. “Come on, we’ll head closer to the shoreline again.” 

Jerome follows along beside him, gripping Bruce just a little bit harder.

This time when he sits beside Bruce in the grass he doesn’t bother to leave any space between them. They turn to face each other, and Jerome lifts a hand to Bruce’s cheek.

“If you want me to stop, this is your—” His words are abruptly cut off because Bruce is the one who makes the first move, pressing their lips firmly together before drawing back, cheeky grin in place.

“You were saying?”

Jerome surges forward. Their teeth clack, his hands fist a little too tightly in Bruce’s hair, and he can’t bring himself to care that it’s not a perfectly executed kiss because Bruce sighs into his mouth and tilts his head and parts his lips when Jerome brushes his tongue against the seam of them. Bruce’s nails dig against the fabric of his waistcoat when Jerome bites and tugs at Bruce’s bottom lip, and if Jerome’s skin had been bared he has no doubt that there would be welts tracking up and down his back.

The idea of being marked in such a way makes him shudder. It also makes him drop his mouth to Bruce’s neck because he wants to leave his own marks behind. He’s got to give Bruce something to remember him by.

He bites and sucks at the skin above Bruce’s shirt collar; when he does get back to work there’s going to be no doubt in anyone’s mind what happened when they were alone together. The knowledge makes something dark, and maybe a little possessive, twist happily inside of him.

Bruce pushes him flat on his back in the overgrown grass and Jerome lets out a peal of delighted laughter before Bruce leans over him and brings their lips together again. He’s forceful, the firm pressure of his mouth almost enough to make Jerome think he’ll leave bruises behind, and he winds his arms around Bruce’s shoulders to bring him closer, closer. Bruce throws a leg over his hips and the kiss turns into something softer, sweeter. The hands that had previously been clawing at Jerome through cloth skim over him, barely-there, until one comes to rest on his face and the other undoes the top two buttons of Jerome’s shirt.

“Undressing me in broad daylight, in a field where anyone could look over and see?”

“Not all the way.” Bruce presses a kiss to his nose, eyes glinting. “I’m not much of an exhibitionist, despite what this situation may make you believe. Plus I’m working under a time constraint; if we’re out here too much longer someone will eventually start looking for me.”

Jerome chortles, but the sounds cuts off in his throat when Bruce rocks against him.

“You’re playing with fire.”

“I know.” A kiss to his cheek, then his forehead. “Are you going to burn me?” Bruce turns his attention to Jerome’s shirt, undoing one more button before he sinks his teeth into the skin just below Jerome’s collar bone. It stings. It’s electric. Bruce laves his tongue against the sore spot and looks up at Jerome from beneath his lashes.

“No.” Jerome swiftly throws his weight, reversing their positions and pinning Bruce down. Bruce can’t hold in the muted sound of surprise that rushes out of him as his back hits the ground. He grins too wide, too eerie, at Bruce’s blown pupils and his flushed cheeks. “I’m going to keep you.” He leans in and presses a kiss to Bruce’s nose, then moves further down to whisper in his ear, “how does that sound?”

Bruce’s hands run through his hair, just as gentle as he’d been early this morning.

“I think we’ll keep each other.”

“I can live with that.” Jerome presses one last, lingering kiss to Bruce’s lips.


	9. Monday Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short, sweet chapter to tie the ends together.  
> It's been so long since I've attempted writing a longer work, thanks for sticking around to the end!

Monday morning finds him in the kitchen again, though instead of slicing up an apple he’s staring at the piece of paper Bruce had slipped into his pocket with a kiss after the circus had closed for the night. He’d saved the contact into his phone immediately, of course, but Bruce’s handwritten note is something that he wants to keep. Like he’s the sort of person who scrapbooks, or—or _laminates_ things to preserve them. Sentimentality doesn’t suit him, but…

‘Text me when you get home safe’ says the note, followed by ten digits. He could have just told Jerome his number. The note was unnecessary. And adorable. Unnecessarily adorable, much like Bruce. 

Bruce had texted him just a few minutes ago to let him know that everyone had already started packing up for the move. It’ll take a few hours, but soon Bruce will be gone.

Slipping through Jerome’s fingers like water. 

“I didn’t want to see you again until Tuesday,” Jeremiah sighs into his coffee from where he’s seated across from him. “And yet here you are, moping.”

Jerome supposes he should be happy that Jeremiah seems to be done with the sappy talk from yesterday. The status quo feels restored, somehow. 

“I’m not moping.” Jerome glares half-heartedly and Jeremiah rolls his eyes.

“The angst is so thick in the room that the air feels humid with it. Stop sulking, it’s highly unusual. Maybe buy the circus,” Jeremiah suggests with a shrug, “it’s not as if you haven’t bought weirder things on a whim.”

Jerome carefully folds the note and slips it back into his pocket, resting his chin on one upturned palm. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest? Since it sort of makes me Bruce’s boss by extension? I’m pretty sure the HR department have given presentations on this kind of thing before.”

Jeremiah sighs again. “Do you actually ever listen to anything HR says?”

“Not important.” Jerome rises out of his seat and throws on his jacket. “I’ve got to go.”

“Thank the lord,” Jeremiah mutters into his nearly-empty mug. “Say ‘hi’ to Bruce for me.”

“Sure, whatever. Don’t call me unless it’s important,” he demands as he exits the kitchen.

It’s bad enough that Bruce is leaving, he doesn’t want anything interrupting their goodbye.

The drive is slower this time around, people who’d gone out of the city for the long weekend have started trickling back in to congest the streets, and when Jerome gets to the fairgrounds he sees only the skeletal remains of a few rides and the tent left. The shooting gallery is long gone. It makes him feel sullen. 

Okay, maybe he is moping.

He wanders past the partially dismantled tent towards the trailer with the red door, and his dark mood brightens a little bit when he spots Bruce sitting on his doorstep, obviously waiting for him.

“Hey stranger,” he calls once he’s within hearing range. Bruce looks up at him, a subdued smile on his face, and rises to his feet. He leans up to press a kiss to Jerome’s mouth and Jerome sighs into it, hand coming to the back of Bruce’s head and tangling lazily in his hair. He wishes they had more time.

Bruce pulls back, eyes flitting over Jerome’s face. He can probably tell that Jerome is moping too.

He’s allowed to sulk, though. Bruce is leaving. He’ll pick the pockets of other people who look like they’ve got a few bills to spare. He’ll wander the rooftops of less-corrupt, better-lit cities. He’ll—

“Hey,” Bruce calls softly, resting his fingers under Jerome’s chin and lifting his gaze back up, “turn that frown upside down for me?”

Jerome takes hold of Bruce’s hand, moving it to his cheek and resting his own overtop to keep it in place. He leans his face further into Bruce’s palm and sighs again. There are a lot of sappy things that are buzzing around his mind, begging to be said, he somehow manages to curb the worst of them. “I haven’t even taken you out for dinner yet. Garlic bread at our first stop on Saturday does not count as dinner.”

Bruce’s lips twitch. He’s fighting back a smile.

“That’s easily rectifiable. Here, I made something for you.” Bruce hands a piece of paper over to him. “I’m not saying that you absolutely need to come and see me, but seriously,” his voice goes all soft and reassuring, gentle just for Jerome, “our next stop isn’t even a two-hour drive from here. Dinner can definitely be in the cards for us, as well as other things.”

Jerome looks down at the paper in his hands. It’s a list of cities and future dates. Bruce’s entire year arranged in-order before him. There are several long gaps between some days—did circuses take breaks? Was Bruce in school? He still has so many questions that he hasn’t had time to ask or have answered—but the information is all laid out in Bruce’s neat printing.

“Less than two hours, huh?” The tense weight he’s been holding finally relaxes. Of course this wasn’t meant to be a goodbye for good, but the knowledge that Bruce isn’t going so far as to be completely out of reach…

“We’ll call each other every day,” Bruce’s voice is a fond whisper, “even about stupid things.” He takes hold of Jerome’s hand and presses a kiss to the back. “And I know you won’t be able to all of the time, but if you’re free and I’m not too far away, well, I wouldn’t say no to a visit every once in a while.” 

“You’ll never be too far away.” Jerome tugs on Bruce’s hand, reeling him in closer. Bruce allows it with a smile. “Billionaire, remember?”

“Chartering a flight to come and see me when I’m on the other side of the country might be a little overkill.”

“But would you like it?”

Bruce doesn’t answer. Jerome huffs out a laugh.

“You’d like it.”

“What can I say? I’m quite fond of you.” Bruce leans his forehead against Jerome’s shoulder. “I can’t see you every day, but I’ll take what I can get.”

And Jerome’s going to give everything he can. He’d gift-wrap the whole of Gotham if he could, but that’s a bit lofty for now. He’ll settle for other things at the moment.

Starting with dinner plans.


End file.
